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Oh, Mariamne! where art thou?

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading:

Ah, could'st thou—thou would'st pardon now,

Though heaven were to my prayer unheeding.


And is she dead ?--and did they dare

Obey my phrensy's jealous raving?

My wrath but doomed my own despair:

The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving.

But thou art cold, my murdered love!

And this dark heart is vainly craving

For her who soars alone above,

And leaves my soul unworthy saving.


She's gone, who shared my diadem;

She sunk, with her my joys entombing;

I swept that flower from Judah's stem

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming.

And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell,

This bosom's desolation dooming;

And I have earned those tortures well,

Which unconsumed are still consuming!

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From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome

I beheld thee, Oh Sion! when rendered to Rome:

'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of

thy fall

Flashed back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.


I looked for thy temple, I looked for my home,

And forgot for a moment my bondage to come;

I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane,

And the fast-fettered hands that made vengeance in



On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed;

While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline

Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy


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