Chapter 23

What burden for Tyre? Mourn aloud, ocean-going ships,1 that reach Cyprus to learn that the home you left is in ruins!

Stand they aghast, dwellers in the coast-land that once was thronged with Sidonian merchants,

that gathered its revenue from far over-seas; grain of Egypt’s sowing, of the Nile’s ripening, bartered they among the nations.

Poor Sidon, by false hopes betrayed! A cry comes up from the sea, from her that was guardian of the sea, Not for me a mother’s joys, a mother’s pangs; never a son reared, never a maid brought to womanhood.

Here is news for Egypt, news from Tyre that shall grip her with despair!

Go out on your ocean voyage, dwellers on the coast-land, mourning aloud;

your city come to this, the same city that had so long boasted of her ancientry! For her townsfolk there is a journey to make on foot, a distant journey.

Who was it plotted the downfall of Tyre, a city once so rich in crowns, whose merchants were princes, whose traffickers were among the great men of the earth?

He, the Lord of hosts, designed it; who else drags in the mire the boaster’s pride, brings all the great men of the earth into derision?

Daughter of ocean,3 henceforward thy land must be watered with streams; the girdle of strength thou hadst is thine no more.

The Lord’s hand, now, is stretched out over the sea itself, throwing all the kingdoms into dismay; his writ has gone out against Chanaan, that all its strongholds should be brought to nothing.

Sidon, poor queen (he says), boast no more of thy virginity; thy name is tarnished now. Cross the sea, and betake thyself to Cyprus if thou wilt; even there thou shalt find no rest.

Her resting-place is the land of the Chaldeans, where Assur has founded a nation strong as no nation ever was; nation that has carried off her warriors into captivity, undermined her palaces, made her into a heap of ruins.

Mourn aloud, ocean-going ships; your stronghold is laid waste.

After this thou wilt be forgotten, thou city of Tyre, for seventy years, long as the life-time of one of thy kings. At the end of those seventy years, Tyre will know the meaning of the harlot’s song,

Take thy harp and go round the streets, poor harlot forgotten; now for thy best notes, now for thy whole store of music, to bring thee back into remembrance!

At the end of those seventy years, the Lord will relent towards Tyre, and send her back to her trafficking; all the world over, with all the world’s kingdoms, she shall play the harlot once more.

But now the revenues of her trafficking shall be devoted to the Lord’s use, not hoarded up and laid by; revenue she shall earn, but for Sion’s folk, the Lord’s servants, to give them food in abundance, and brave clothes to wear.