Vain, proud, rebellious Prince, thy treacherous hair,
Though thirty centuries have come and gone,
Still in that bitter oak doth thee ensnare;
Rings on that broken-hearted, Son, my son! …

And though, with childhood's tragic gaze, I see
Thee—idol of Israel—helpless in the tree,
Thy dying eyes turned darkened from the Sun;
Yet, of all faces in far memory's shrine—
Paris, Adonis, pale Endymion—
 The loveliest still is thine.
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