Now leaning on his harp in memory
Enwrapt, while fitful breezes lift his locks
Of snow, he sadly kneels upon the rocks
And sighing deeply clasps his hands in woe,
While the dread past before his mind doth flow.
A score and eight of years have slowly passed
Since Rim-a-gu, with Elam's host amassed,
Kardunia's ancient capital had stormed.
The glorious walls and turrets are transformed
To a vast heap of ruins, weird, forlorn,
And Elam's spears gleam through the coming morn.
From the sad sight his eyes he turns away,
His soul breathes through his harp while he doth play
With bended head his agèd hands thus woke
The woes of Erech with a measured stroke:

O Erech! dear Erech, my beautiful home,
Accadia's pride, O bright land of the bard,
Come back to my vision, dear Erech, oh, come!
Fair land of my birth, how thy beauty is marred!
The horsemen of Elam, her spearsmen and bows,
Thy treasures have ravished, thy towers thrown down,
And Accad is fallen, trod down by her foes.
Oh, where are thy temples of ancient renown?

Gone are her brave heroes beneath the red tide,
Gone are her white vessels that rode o'er the main,
No more on the river her pennon shall ride,
Gargan-na is fallen, her people are slain.
Wild asses[23] shall gallop across thy grand floors,