These are his sweetest music, since his joy
Was shattered in his holy land of balm.
Since his foe broke the sweetest instruments
Of music in his Temple, ever dear,
Only the plaintive ram’s-horn to the Jew
Is left, on which he sobs but once a year.
Of drums and cymbals, organs, harps and lyres,
Flutes and guitars, all with their dulcet strains,
The gloomy ram’s-horn, withered, sad and dry,
Is all that now to the poor Jew remains.