xvi.
Was Israel glad in Seville on the day
Thou didst renounce him? Then mightst thou indeed
Snap finger at whatever thy slanderers say.
Lothly must I admit, just then the seed
Of Jacob chanced upon a grievous way.
Still from the wounds of that red year we bleed.
The curse had fallen upon our heads—the sword
Was whetted for the chosen of the Lord.
xvii.
There where we flourished like a fruitful palm,
We were uprooted, spoiled, lopped limb from limb.
A bolt undreamed of out of heavens calm,
So cracked our doom. We were destroyed by him
Whose hand since childhood we had clasped.
With balm
Our head had been anointed, at the brim
Our cup ran over—now our day was done.
Our blood flowed free as water in the sun.
xviii.
Midst the four thousand of our tribe who held
Glad homes in Seville, never a one was spared.
