Каролина Фрай (Уилсон) (Caroline Fry (Wilson))

The Harp of Judah

For whom is the harp of Judah strung,
That silent erst on the willows hung?
Whence are the stranger sounds that crept
O'er the tuneful chords that so long have slept?

Methinks 'twas a sound that the breezes bore,
On joyful wings, from a distant shore;
And the harp of Judah gently rings,
As the whisper creeps o'er the slumbering strings.

'Twas the voice of pity, that asks a tear
For the mournful weeds her children wear;
That asks of Compassion's hand to wrest
The poignant thorn from Israel's breast.

It tells of a faint and feeble light,
That breaks on the captive's weary night;
The dawn of a glorious day to come,
When Mercy shall lead the wanderer home.

Ah! far may the voice be whisper'd round,
Till each heart be glad at the joyful sound;
And many a bosom learn to feel
An anxious throb for Israel's weal!

And many a lip be taught to share,
With holy warmth, the expectant prayer;
The prayer that He, whose prophetic eye
Once softly wept o'er her ruin nigh,

By the voice of imploring nations mov'd,
May smile again on the land he lov'd;
And wipe from her brow the spot of shame,
Replac'd by the seal of her Saviour's name!

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