| |
| | The beautye of the lande ys slayne, |
| How lowlye are the myghte layne! |
I | |
| And lette us heave the pityinge moane!— | |
| But whyle we strowe the willowe biere | |
| For Ysrael’s pryde to lye upon; | |
| Oh! lette not Gath the tidynges heare | 5 |
| Oh, tell yt not yn Askalon, | |
| Lest every wayling sounde of ours | |
| Rayse triumpe-shoutes in heathen bowers! | |
| |
II May raine or dew droppe neuer lyghte | |
| Upon thy mountaynes, Gilboa! | 10 |
| May offerynge flame ne’er crowne thyne heighte | |
| In deepe of nyght or noon of daye! | |
| Where worsted yn unholie fyghte | |
| The myghtie flung hys shielde away; | |
| Cast meanlie on the fouled greene, | 15 |
| As he had ne’er anoynted beene! | |
| |
III From battel fyelde they turned them ne’er | |
| With bowe unstrunge, or blade untryede— | |
| Pleasant They Were Yn Life, and Fayre | |
| Nor Yette Did Deathe Theyre Loues Divide— | 20 |
| Theyre nervous armes mighte scathelesse dare | |
| To bearde the lyon yn hys pryde; | |
| Yette theyre lyghte limbs made fleeter speede | |
| Than eagles stoopynge o’er the meade. | |
| |
IV Ye daughteres of the lande, deplore, | 25 |
| For Saule the bounteous and the bolde, | |
| Whose kynglie hande hath founde you store | |
| Of crimson geare and clothe of golde. | |
| Alack! that hande can giue noe more, | |
| That worthie harte ys stille and colde; | 30 |
| Unknown amongst the deade and dyinge, | |
| The mightie with the mean are lying!— | |
| |
V Ah! Jonathan! my brother! lorne | |
| And friendless I must looke to be!— | |
| That harte whose woe thou ofte hast borne | 35 |
| Is sore and strickene nowe for thee. | |
| Young brydegroome’s loue on brydal morne, | |
| Oh! yt was lyghte to thyne for me. | |
| Thy tymelesse lotte I now must playne, | |
| Even on thyne owne high places slayne! | 40 |
| How lowlie now the mightie are! | |
| How still the weapons of the war. | |
| |
