Mourn, Israel! Sons of Israel, mourn!
       &nbspGive utterance to the inward throe!
As wails, of her first love forlorn,
       &nbspThe Virgin clad in robes of woe.

Mourn the young Mother, snatch'd away
       &nbspFrom Light and Life's ascending Sun!
Mourn for the Babe, Death's voiceless prey,
       &nbspEarn'd by long pangs and lost ere won.

Mourn the bright Rose that bloom'd and went,
       &nbspEre half disclosed its vernal hue!
Mourn the green Bud, so rudely rent,
       &nbspIt brake the stem on which it grew.

Mourn for the universal woe
       &nbspWith solemn dirge and fault'ring tongue:
For England's Lady is laid low,
       &nbspSo dear, so lovely, and so young!

The blossoms on her Tree of Life
       &nbspShone with the dews of recent bliss:
Transplanted in that deadly strife,
       &nbspShe plucks its fruits in Paradise.

Mourn for the widow'd Lord in chief,
       &nbspWho wails and will not solaced be!
Mourn for the childless Father's grief,
       &nbspThe wedded Lover's agony!

Mourn for the Prince, who rose at morn
       &nbspTo seek and bless the firstling bud
Of his own Rose, and found the thorn,
       &nbspIts point bedew'd with tears of blood.

O press again that murmuring string!
       &nbspAgain bewail that princely Sire!
A destined Queen, a future King,
       &nbspHe mourns on one funereal pyre.

Mourn for Britannia's hopes decay'd,
       &nbspHer daughters wail their dear defence;
Their fair example, prostrate laid,
       &nbspChaste Love and fervid Innocence.

While Grief in song shall seek repose,
       &nbspWe will take up a Mourning yearly:
To wail the blow that crush'd the Rose,
       &nbspSo dearly priz'd and lov'd so dearly.

Long as the fount of Song o'erflows
       &nbspWill I the yearly dirge renew:
Mourn for the firstling of the Rose,
       &nbspThat snapt the stem on which it grew.

The proud shall pass, forgot; the chill,
       &nbspDamp, trickling Vault their only mourner!
Not so the regal Rose, that still
       &nbspClung to the breast which first had worn her!

O thou, who mark'st the Mourner's path
       &nbspTo sad Jeshurun's Sons attend!
Amid the Light'nings of thy Wrath
       &nbspThe showers of Consolation send!

Jehovah frowns! the Islands bow!
       &nbspAnd Prince and People kiss the Rod!—
Their dread chastising Judge wert thou!
       &nbspBe thou their Comforter, O God!