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A poem by Thomas Moore |
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The Parallel |
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Title: The Parallel Author: Thomas Moore [More Titles by Moore] Yes, sad one of Sion,[1] if closely resembling, Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken, Like thine doth her exile, mid dreams of returning, Ah, well may we call her, like thee "the Forsaken,"[3] Yet hadst thou thy vengeance--yet came there the morrow, When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City[4] When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over
[2] 1 "Her sun is gone down while it was yet day."--_Jer_. xv. 9. [3] "Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken."--_Isaiah_, lxii. 4. [4] "How hath the oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased!"--_Isaiah_, xiv. 4. [5] "Thy pomp is brought down to the grave . . . and the worms cover thee."--_Isaiah_, xiv. 11. [6] "Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms."--_Isaiah_, xlvil. 5. [The end] GO TO TOP OF SCREEN |