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She mourned her sons enslaved, her glories lost.
In her wide streets the lonely raven bred,
There barked the wolf, and dire hyaenas fed.
Yet midst her towery fanes, in ruin laid,
The pilgrim saint his murmuring vespers paid.
*T was his to climb the tufted rocks, and rove
The chequered twilight of the olive grove ;
'Twas his to bend beneath the sacred gloom,
And wear with many a kiss Messiah’s tomb;
While forms celestial filled his tranced eye,
The day-light dreams of pensive piety,
O'er his still breast a tearful fervor stole,
And softer sorrows charmed the mourner's soul,
O, lives there one, who mocks his artless zeal?
Too proud to worship, and too wise to feel ?
Be his the soul with wintry Reason blest,
The dull, lethargic sovereign of the breast.
Be his the life that creeps in dead repose,
No joy that sparkles, and no tear that flows.
Far other they who reared yon pompous shrine
And bade the rock with Parian marble shine.
Then hallowed Peace renewed her wealthy
Then altars smoked, and Sion smiled again.
There sculptured gold and costly gems were seen,
And all the bounties of the British queen;
There barb’rous kings their sandaled nations led,
And steel-clad champions bowed the crested
There, when her fiery race the desert poured,
And pale Byzantium feared Medina's sword,
When coward Asia shook in trembling wo,
And bent appalled before the Bactrian bow;
From the moist regions of the western star
The wand'ring hermit waked the storm of war.
Their limbs all iron, and their souls all flaine,
A countless host, the red-cross warriors came.
E’en hoary priests the sacred combat wage,
And clothe in steel the palsied arm of age;
While beardless youths and tender maids assume
The weighty morion and the glancing plume.
In sportive pride the warrior damsels wield
The ponderous falchion, and the sunlike shield,
And start to see their armor's iron gleam
Dance with blue lustre in Tabaria's stream.
The blood-red banner floating o'er their van,
All madly blithe the mingled myrials ran.
Impatient Death beheld his destined food,
And hovering vultures snuffed the scent of blood.
Not such the numbers, nor the host so dread,
By Northern Brenn or Scythian Timur led,
Nor such the heart-inspiring zeal that bore
United Greece to Phrygia’s reedy shore.
There Gaul's proud knights with boastful mien
From the long line, and shake the cornel lance;
Here, linked with Thrace, in close battalions
Ausonia’s sons, a soft inglorious band;
There the stern Norman joins the Austrian train,
And the dark tribes of late reviving Spain;
Here in black files, advancing firin and slow,
Victorious Albion twangs the deadly bow :-
Albion, still prompt the captive's wrong to aid
And wield in freedom's cause the freeman’s gen-
Ye sainted spirits of the warrior dead,
Whose giant force Britannia’s armies led,
Whose bickering falchions, foremost in the fight,
Still poured confusion on the Soldan's might;
Lords of the biting axe and beamy spear,
Wide conquering Edward, lion Richard, hear.
At Albion's call your crested pride resume,
And burst the marble slumbers of the tomb.
Your sons behold, in arm, in heart the same,
Still press the footsteps of parental fame,
To Salem still their generous aid supply,
And pluck the palm of Syrian chivalry.
When he, from towery Malta's yielding isle,
And the green waters of reluctant Nile,
Th’apostate chief-from Misraim's subject shore
To Acre’s walls his trophied banners bore ;
When the pale desert marked his proud array,
And Desolation hoped an ampler sway ;
What hero then triumphant Gaul dismayed 2
What arm repelled the victor renegade 2
Britannia's champion :-bathed in hostile blood,
High on the breach the dauntless seaman stood;
Admiring Asia saw th’ unequal fight,
E’en the pale cresent blessed the Christian’s
O day of death; O thirst, beyond control,
Of crimson conquest in th’ invader's soul.
The slain, yet warm, by social footsteps trod,
O'er the red moat supplied a panting road;
O'er the red moat our conquering thunders flew,
And loftier still the grisly rampire grew.
While proudly glowed above the rescued tower
The wavy cross that marked Britannia's power.
Yet still destruction sweeps the lonely plain,
And heroes lift the generous sword in vain.
Still o'er her sky the clouds of anger roll,
And God's revenge hangs heavy on her soul.
Yet shall she rise;—but not by war restored,
Not built in murder—planted by the sword.
Yes, Salem, thou shalt rise; thy Father's aid
Shall heal the wound his chastening hand has
Shall judge the proud oppressor's ruthless sway,
And burst his brazen bonds, and cast his cords
Then on your tops shall deathless verdure spring;
Break forth, ye mountains, and, ye valleys,sing.
No more your thirsty rocks shall frown forlorn,
The unbeliever's jest, the heathen’s scorn;
The sultry sands shall tenfold harvests yield,
And a new Eden deck the thorny field.
E’en now, perchance,wide waving o'er the land,
That mighty angel lifts his golden wand,
Courts the bright vision of descending power,
Tells every gate, and measures every tower:
And chides the tardy seals that yet detain
Thy Lion, Judah, from his destined reign.
And who is He 2 the vast, the awful form,
Girt with the whirlwind, sandaled with the
A western cloud around his limbs is spread,
His crown a rainbow, and a sun his head,
To highest heaven he lifts his kingly hand,
And treads at once the ocean and the land ;
And, hark: his voice amid the thunder's roar,
His dreadful voice, that time shall be no more.
Lo, cherub hands the golden courts prepare,
Lo, thrones arise, and every saint is there.
Earth's utmost bounds confess their awful sway,
The mountains worship, and the isles obey.