I. <br />From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome, <br />I beheld thee, Oh Sion! when rendered to Rome: <br />'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall <br />Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. <br /> <br />II. <br />I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, <br />And forgot for a moment my bondage to come; <br />I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, <br />And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain. <br /> <br />III. <br />Oh many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed <br />Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed; <br />While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline <br />Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine. <br /> <br />IV. <br />And now on that mountain I stood on that day, <br />But I marked not the twilight beam melting away; <br />Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead, <br />And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head! <br /> <br />V. <br />But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane <br />The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign; <br />And scattered and scorn'd as thy people may be, <br />Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee.<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-the-last-hill-that-looks-on-thy-once-holy-dome/
