Child of an alien creed, thy heavier sorrows bewailing,
Weep not—for ah! more pure—more fair—none with thee may compare them:
What though the foe should exultingly scoff, thy God will preserve thee.
Maiden, a champion for thee will arise, and, the boaster defying,
Again shall the daughter of Judah rejoice with exceeding rejoicing.
Vain is the torture—the strength of the battle—the wrath of the Templar;
Undishonoured thy name shall resound—thy cause still prevailing,
No more may the toils and the snares of the wicked thy footsteps entangle;
But flowers for thee—fair fragrant flowers—thy forehead adorning,
Again shall thy harp from the willows descend, sweet harmony pealing.
By the waters of Babylon's stream, by fountains where erst ye awoke them,
Ah! how pure in thy beauty thou walkest, too lovely Rebecca;
Even now are the prayers of thy father for thee interceding:
Ivanhoe shall conquer—shall loosen the bonds that enthral thee,
But his love is not thine: Ah no! the fair Saxon maiden
Awaits his return;—whilst thou—thou still with tears wilt deplore him;
Vainly, ah! vainly, they gush—unseen, unknown and for ever.
Alas! that the daughters of Eve should love and thus be requited.