That led her pomp beneath the cloudless sky
In vestments flaming with the orient gold;
Her gold is dim, and mute her music’s voice,
The heathen o’er her perish’d pomp rejoice!
How stately then was every palm-deck’d street
Down which the maidens danced with tinkling feet!
How proud the elders in the lofty gate!
How crowded all her nation’s solemn feasts
With white-robed Levites, and high-mitred priests;
How gorgeous her temple’s sacred state!