E'en they, when high above the dusty fight,
Their burning temple rose in lurid light,
To their lov'd altars paid a parting groan,
And in their country's woes forgot their own.
As 'mid the cedar courts and gates of gold,
The trampled rauks in miry carnage roll'd;
To save their temple ev'ry hand essay'd,
And with cold fingers grasp'd the feeble blade:
Through their torn veins reviving fury ran,
And life's last anger warm'd the dying man.
But heavier far the fetter'd captive's doom!
To glut with sighs the iron ear of Rome;
To swell, slow pacing by the car's tall side,
The stoic tyrant's philosophic pride;
To flesh the lion's ravenous jaws, or feel
The sportive fury of the fencer's steel;
Or pant, deep-plung'd, beneath the sultry mine,
For the light gales of balmy Palestine.

Ah! fruitful now no more-an empty coast,
She mourn'd. her sons enslav'd, her glories lost:
In her wide streets the lonely raven bred,
There bark'd the wolf and dire hyænas fed.
Yet midst her towery fanes, in ruins laid,
The pilgrim saint his murmuring vespers paid;
'Twas his to climb the tufted rocks, and rove
The chequer'd 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 fill'd his tranced eye,
The day-light dreams of pensive piety;
O'er his still breast a tearful fervour stole,
And softer sorrows charm'd the mourner's soul.
Oh! 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!

E

Far other they who rear'd who pompous shrine, (7)
And bade the rock with Parian marble shine;
Then hallow'd peace renew'd her wealthy reign,
Then altars smok'd and Sion smil'd again;
There sculptur'd gold and costly gems were seen,
And all the bounties of the British Queen; (8)
There barb'rous kings their sandal nations led,
And steel-clad champions bow'd the crested
head.

There, when her fiery race the desert pour'd,
And pale Byzantium fear'd Medina's sword,
When coward Asia shook in trembling woe,
And bent appal'd before the Bactrian bow;
From the moist regions of the Western star
The wand'ring hermit wak'd the storm of war, (9)
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 bashful pride the warrior virgins wield
The pond'rous faulchion and the sun-like shield,
And start to see their armour's iron gleam
Dance with blue lustre in Tabaria's stream.
The blood-red banner floating o'er the van,
All madly blithe the mingled myriads ran :
Impatient death beheld his destin'd food,
And hov'ring vultures snuff'd the scent of blood.
Not such the numbers, nor the host so dread
By Northern Brenn, or Scythian Timur led, (10)
Nor such the heart-inspiring zeal that bore
United Greece to Phrygia's reedy Shore!

(7) The Temple of the Sepulchre.

(8) St. Helena, who was according to Cambden, born at Col chester.

(9) Peter the Hermit.

(10) Brennus and Tamerlane.

There Gaul's proud Knights with boastful, mien

advance,

Form the long line, and shake the cornel lance;
Here link'd 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 firm 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 generous
blade!

Ye sainted spirits of the warriors dead,
Whose giant force Britannia's armies led!
Whose bickering faulchions foremost in the fight,
Still pour'd 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 tow'ry 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 mark'd his proud array,
And desolation hop'd an ampler sway,
What hero then triumphant Gaul dismay'd?
What arm repell'd the victor renegade?
Britannia's champion! bath'd in hostile blood,
High on the beech the dauntless SEAMAN stood:
Admiring Asia saw th' unequal fight;

E'en the pale crescent blest the Christian's might.
Oh day of death! oh thirst, beyond controul,
Of crimson conquest in th' invader's soul!
The slain, yet warm, by social footsteps trod,
O'er the red moat supply'd a panting road;

O'er the red moat our conquering thunders flew,
And loftier still the grisly rampire grew.
While proudly glow'd above the rescu'd tower
The wavy cross that mark'd 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 restor'd,
Nor built in murder, planted by the sword.
Yes, Salem, thou shalt rise: thy father's aid
Shall heal the wound his chastening hand has
made;

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 vallies, 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, perhaps, wide waving o'er the land,
The mighty angel lifts his golden wand; (1)
Courts the bright vision of descending power, (2)
Tells every gate, and measures every tower;
And chides the tardy seals that yet detain
Thy lion, Judah, from his destin'd reign.
And who is he? the vast, the awful form, (3)
Girt with the whirlwind, sandal'd 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 band,
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 are set, and ev'ry saint is there;

(1) Ezek. xl. (2) Rev. xxi. 10. (3) Ibid. x.

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: (4)
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 throne?
Ou David's throne shall David's offspring reign!
And the dry bones be warm with life again!
Hark! white rob'd crowds their deep Hosannahs 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 dy'd, Who lives, triumphant o'er the grave!"