…from the quills of dead white poets
Lord Byron (1788 – 1824)
(From “Hebrew Melodies”)
In the valley of waters we wept on the day When the host of the Stranger made Salem his prey; And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay, And our hearts were so full of the land far away! The song they demanded in vain – it lay still, In our souls as the wind that hath died in the hill – They called for the harp – but our blood they shall spill Ere our right hands shall teach them tone of their skill. All stringlessly hung in the willow’s sad tree, As dead as her dead-leaf, those mute harps must be: Our hands may be fettered – our tears still are free For our God – and our Glory – and Zion, Oh Thee!