The Arch of Titus

CRUMBLING, age-worn, in Rome the eternal,

Stands the arch of Titus’ triumph,

With its carven Jewish captives

Shouldering the holy Menorah.

And each nightfall, when the turmoil

Of the Petrine clangor ceaseth,

Seven flames the arch illumine,

Mystic glowings, burning strangely.

Then cast off their graven shackles,

Judah’s sons of marble graven,

Living step they from the ruin,

Living stride they from the Jordan.

They are healed in its waters,

Till the freshness of each dawning,

Then resume their ancient labor,

Perfect marble, whole and holy.

Dust of dust the wheeling seasons

Grind that mighty archéd splendor,

Rase the Gaul and rase the Roman,

Grind away their fame and glory,

The shackled Jews alone withstand them,

Shouldering their holy Menorah.