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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 twangs the deadly bow:Albion, still prompt the captive's wrong to aid And wield in freedom's cause the freeman's gen
Albion's call your crested pride resume,
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 inarked 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 fold 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, Aud 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.' EUROPE: