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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 flame, 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 falcbion, 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 myriads 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
advance, From the long line, and shake the cornel lance ;
Here, linked with Thrace, in close battalions
stand 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 (wangs the deadly bow : Albion, still prompt the captive's wrong to aid And wield in freedom's cause the freeman's gen
erous blade. 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,—froin 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 ;
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
inade, Shall judge the proud oppressor's ruthless sway,
And burst his brazen bonds, and cast his cords
away. 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 ? the vast, the awful form, Girt with the whirlwind, sandaled with the
storm? 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.
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.'