Who greet thee as the remnants of thy flock?
Take Thou on every side,
East, west and south and north, their greetings multiplied.
Sadly he greets thee still,
The prisoner of hope who, day and night,
Sheds ceaseless tears, like dew on Hermon’s hill.
Would that they fell upon thy mountain’s height!
Harsh is my voice when I bewail thy woes,
But when in fancy’s dreams
I see thy freedom, forth its cadence flows,