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Nor sun nor moon they need,—nor day, nor
night;
God is their temple, and the Lamb their light.
And shall not Israel’s sons exulting come,
Hail the glad beam,and claim their ancient home?
On David's throne shall David’s offspring reign,
And the dry bones be warm with life again.
Hark, white-robed crowds their deep hosannas
- raise,
And the hoarse flood repeats the sound of praise.
Ten thousand harps attune the mystic song,
Ten thousand thousand saints the strain prolong:
“Worthy the Lamb, omnipotent to save,
Who died, who lives, triumphant o'er the grave.”

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At that dread season when th’ indignant north
Poured to vain wars her tardy numbers forth,
When Frederic bent his ear to Europe's cry,
And fanned too late the flame of liberty;
By feverish hope oppressed,and anxious thought,
In Dresden’s grove the dewy cool I sought.
Through tangled boughs the broken moonshine
played,
And Elbe slept soft beneath his linden shade—
Yet slept not all;-I heard the ceaseless jar,
The rattling wagons, and the wheels of war,
The sounding lash, the march’s mingled hum,
And, lost and heard by fits, the languid drum ;
O'er the near bridge the thundering hoofs that
trode,
And the far-distant fife that thrilled along the
road.
Yes, sweet it seems across some watery dell

To catch the music of the pealing bell;
And sweet to list, as on the beach we stray,
The ship-boy's carol in the wealthy bay:
But sweet no less,when Justice points the spear,
Of martial wrath the glorious din to hear,
To catch the war-note on the quivering gale,
And bid the blood red paths of conquest hail.
O, song of hope, too long delusive strain.
And hear we now thy flattering voice again?
But late, alas, I left thee cold and still,
Stunned by the wrath of Heaven, on Pratzen’s
hill.
O, on that hill may no kind month renew
The fertile rain, the sparkling summer dew.
Accursed of God, may those bleak summits tell
The field of anger where the mighty fell.
There youthful Faith and high born Courage rest,
And, red with slaughter, Freedom's humbled
crest,
There Europe,soiled with blood her tresses gray,
And ancient Honor's shield—all vilely thrown
away.
Thus mused my soul, as in succession drear
Rose each grim shape of Wrath and Doubt and
Fear.
Defeat and shame in grizzly vision passed,

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