Classic Poem

Woe, woe to the city imperial,
The delicate city!
There cometh a shadow funereal,
A doom without pity.

Thy daughters walk pertly and haughtily;
They mince as in dances;
They bridle the neck; they turn naughtily
With wantoning glances.

Thine ancients are misers, usurious;
Thy judges are knavish;
Thine opulent ones are luxurious;
Thy mean ones are slavish.

Thy magistrates creep in senility;
Thy prophets dissemble;
Thy counsellors babble sterility;
Thy men of war tremble.

Thou wast altogether victorious
When God was thy pleasure;
Thy visage was shining and glorious,
Thy joy had no measure.

But now art thou wayward, undutiful
To Him, thy salvation;
And so art thou blemished, unbeautiful,
A doom-stricken nation.

Because thou hast borne thee exultingly
And trampled the lowly;
Because thou hast chattered insultingly
Of things that are holy;

Because thou despiseth admonishment
And holdest to error;
Thy judgment shall be an astonishment,
Thy scourging a terror.