كلمات Ichabod

So fallen, so lost, the light withdrawn Which once he wore The glory from his gray hair gone Forevermore Revile him not, the Tempter hath A snare for all And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath Befit his fall Oh dumb be passion's stormy rage When he who might Have lighted up and led his age Falls back in night Scorn, would the angels laugh to mark A bright soul driven Fiend-goaded down the endless dark From hope and heaven Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now Nor brand with deeper shame his dim Dishonored brow But let its humbled sons instead From sea to lake A long lament, as for the dead In sadness make Of all we loved and honored Naught save power remains A fallen angel's pride of thought Still strong in chains All else is gone from those great eyes The soul has fled When faith is lost when honor dies The man is dead Then pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame Walk backward with averted gaze