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And Desolation hoped an ampler sway ;
What hero then triumphant Gaul disınayed ?
What arm repelled the victor renegade ?
Britannia's champion :--bathed in hostile blood,
High on the breach the dauntless seaman stood;
Admiriog Asia saw th’unequal fight,
E'en the pale cresent blessed the Christian's

might.
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

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 por moon they need, nor day, nor

night; God is their temple, and the Lamb their light. And shall not Israel's sons esulting 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.'

EUROPE:

LINES ON THE PRESENT WAR.

WRITTEN IN 1809.

ID. QVANDO. ACCIDERIT. NON. SATIS. AVDEO

EFFARI. SI QVIDEM. NON. CLARIVS, MIHI

PER.SACROS. TRIPODES. CERTA. REFERT. DEVS

NEC. SERVAT. PENITVS. FIDEM

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PETRVS. CRINITYS. IN. CARMINE

AD BER. CARAPHAM,

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