IT suits thee well to weep, <br />As thou lookest on the fair land, <br />Whose sceptre thou hast held <br />With less than woman's hand. <br /> <br />On yon bright city gaze, <br />With its white and marble halls, <br />The glory of its lofty towers, <br />The strength of its proud walls. <br /> <br />And look to yonder palace, <br />With its garden of the rose, <br />With its groves and silver fountains, <br />Fit for a king's repose. <br /> <br />There is weeping in that city, <br />And a cry of woe and shame, <br />There's a whisper of dishonour, <br />And that whisper is thy name. <br /> <br />And the stranger's feast is spread, <br />But it is no feast of thine; <br />In thine own halls accursed lips <br />Drain the forbidden wine. <br /> <br />And aged men are in the streets, <br />Who mourn their length of days, <br />And young knights stand with folded arms, <br />And eyes they dare not raise. <br /> <br />There is not one whose blood was not <br />As the waves of ocean free,-- <br />Their fathers died for thy fathers, <br />They would have died for thee. <br /> <br />Weep not, 'tis mine to weep, <br />That ever thou wert born, <br />Alas, that all a mother's love <br />Is lost in a queen's scorn! <br /> <br />Yet weep, thou less than woman, weep, <br />Those tears become thine eye,-- <br />It suits thee well to weep the land <br />For which thou daredst not die.*<br /><br />Letitia Elizabeth Landon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sultana-s-remonstrance/
