Page:Songs before sunrise (IA beforesunrisongs00swinrich).pdf/254

 Let none rejoice or make mirth Till the evil thing be stayed, Nor grief be lulled in the lute, Nor hope be loud on the lyre; Let none be glad upon earth. O music of young man and maid, O songs of the bride, be mute. For the light of her eyes, her desire, Is the soul dismayed.

It is not a land new-born That is scourged of a stranger’s hand, That is rent and consumed with flame. We have known it of old, this face, With the cheeks and the tresses torn, With shame on the brow as a brand. We have named it of old by name, The land of the royallest race, The most holy land.

Had I words of fire, Whose words are weak as snow; Were my heart a lyre Whence all its love might flow