THOU poor wan phantom of a vanished joy, Pale wandered from the East! Upon thy brow Hang once-fresh garlands, sadly withered now; Time's hand hath marred what it might not destroy, Darkened thy fame, and made thee almost dumb From cold neglect. Thy backward-gazing eyes See visions of dead happy pasts arise To mock thee with sweet laughter. Children come And wonderingly look on one they loved, Who brought them gifts and pleasure and a tale That even Repetition could not stale,— Of Love triumphant, and of Hate removed, Now scatter ashes on thy reverend head, Israel forgets thee, Purim! thou art dead. |