text_original: In vain thine agony grew almost sweet With pity at His death, and vainly there The Magdalen lavished on His wounded feet Her lips' caress, her opulence of hair. 75 TO A BUST OF THE MATER DOLOROSA In vain thy Son raised Lazarus from the dust, In vain He brake the bread and shared the wine, In vain they wore His sign, the meek and just, In vain He was a symbol and a shrine ! In vain
text_transcription: IN VAIN THINE AGONY GREW ALMOST SWEET WITH PITY AT HIS DEATH AND VAINLY THERE THE MAUDLIN LAVISHED ON HIS WOUNDED FEET HER LIPS CARESS HER OPULENCE OF HAIR IN VAIN THY SON RAISED LAZARUS FROM THE DUST IN VAIN HE BRAKE THE BREAD AND SHARED THE WINE IN VAIN THEY WORE HIS SIGN THE MEEK AND JUST IN VAIN HE WAS A SYMBOL AND A SHRINE IN VAIN
phonemes: ɪn vˈeɪn ðaɪn ˈæɡəni ɡɹˈuː ˈɔːlmoʊst swˈiːt wɪð pˈɪɾi æt hɪz dˈɛθ, ænd vˈeɪnli ðɛɹ ðə mˈæɡdeɪlən lˈævɪʃt ˌɔn hɪz wˈuːndᵻd fˈiːt hɜː lˈɪps kɚɹˈɛs, hɜːɹ ˈɑːpjʊləns ʌv hˈɛɹ. sˈɛvənti fˈaɪv tuː ɐ bˈʌst ʌvðə mˈeɪɾɚ dˌɑːlɔːɹˈoʊsə ɪn vˈeɪn ðˌaɪ sˈʌn ɹˈeɪzd lˈæzɚɹəs fɹʌmðə dˈʌst, ɪn vˈeɪn hiː bɹˈeɪk ðə bɹˈɛd ænd ʃˈɛɹd ðə wˈaɪn, ɪn vˈeɪn ðeɪ wˈɔːɹ hɪz sˈaɪn, ðə mˈiːk ænd dʒˈʌst, ɪn vˈeɪn hiː wʌzɐ sˈɪmbəl ænd ɐ ʃɹˈaɪn ! ɪn vˈeɪn