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And cursed his blighted hopes and wasted guile
When, at the bidding of Thy sovereign might
Flew on their destined path

Thy messengers of wrath,

Riding on storms and wrapped in deepest night
The Phthian mountains saw,

And quaked with mystic awe:


The proud Sultana of the Straights bowed down
Her jewelled neck and her embattled crown.
The miscreants, as they raised their
Glaring defiance on Thy skies,
Saw adverse winds and clouds display
The terrors of their black array ;-
Saw each portentous star

Whose fiery aspect turned of yore to flight
The iron chariots of the Canaanite

Gird its bright harness for a deadlier war.

Beneath Thy withering look
Their limbs with palsy shook;

Scattered on earth the crescent banners lay,
Trembled with panic fear

Sabre and targe and spear,

Through the proud armies of the rising day.
Faint was each heart, unnerved each hand;
And, if they strove to charge or stand,
Their efforts were as vain
As his who, scared in feverish sleep
By evil dreams, essays to leap,

Then backward falls again.
With a crash of wild dismay,
Their ten thousand ranks gave way;
Fast they broke, and fast they fled;
Trampled, mangled, dying, dead,
Horse and horseman mingled lay;
Till the mountains of the slain
Raised the valleys to the plain.

Be all the glory to Thy name divine!

The swords were ours; the arm, O Lord, was Thine.

Therefore to Thee, beneath whose footstool wait
The powers which erring man calls Chance and Fate,
To Thee who hast laid low

The pride of Europe's foe,

And taught Byzantium's sullen lords to fear,

I pour my spirit out

In a triumphant shout,

And call all ages and all lands to hear.
Thou who evermore endurest,

Loftiest, mightiest, wisest, purest,
Thou whose will destroys or saves,
Dread of tyrants, hope of slaves,
The wreath of glory is from Thee,
And the red sword of victory.

There where exulting Danube's flood
Runs stained with Islam's noblest blood
From that tremendous field,

There where in mosque the tyrants met,
And from the crier's minaret

Unholy summons pealed,

Pure shrines and temples now shall be
Decked for a worship worthy Thee.
To Thee thy whole creation pays
With mystic sympathy its praise,
The air, the earth, the seas:
The day shines forth with livelier beam;
There is a smile upon the stream,

An anthem on the breeze.

Glory, they cry, to Him whose might

Hath turned the barbarous foe to flight,

Whose arm protects with power divine

The city of his favored line.

The caves, the woods, the rocks, repeat the sound;
The everlasting hills roll the long echoes round.

But, if Thy rescued church may dare
Still to besiege Thy throne with prayer,
Sheathe not, we implore Thee, Lord,
Sheathe not Thy victorious sword.

Still Panonia pines away,
Vassal of a double sway:

Still Thy servants groan in chains,
Still the race which hates Thee reigns:

Part the living from the dead:

Join the members to the head:

Snatch Thine own sheep from yon fell monster's hold; Let one kind shepherd rule one undivided fold.

He is the victor, only he

Who reaps the fruits of victory.
We conquered once in vain,

When foamed the Ionian waves with gore,
And heaped Lepanto's stormy shore

With wrecks and Moslem slain.

Yet wretched Cyprus never broke
The Syrian tyrant's iron yoke.
Shall the twice vanquished foe
Again repeat his blow?

Shall Europe's sword be hung to rust in peace?
No-let the red-cross ranks

Of the triumphant Franks

Bear swift deliverance to the shrines of Greece;
And in her inmost heart let Asia feel

The avenging plagues of Western fire and steel.

Oh God! for one short moment raise
The veil which hides those glorious days.
The flying foes I see thee urge
Even to the river's headlong verge.
Close on their rear the loud uproar
Of fierce pursuit from Ister's shore
Comes pealing on the wind;
The Rab's wild waters are before,
The Christian sword behind.
Sons of perdition, speed your flight.
No earthly spear is in the rest;
No earthly champion leads to fight
The warriors of the West.

The Lord of Hosts asserts His old renown,
Scatters, and smites, and slays, and tramples down.
Fast, fast, beyond what mortal tongue can say,
Or mortal fancy dream,

He rushes on his prey :

Till, with the terrors of the wondrous theme Bewildered and appalled, I cease to sing,

And close my dazzled eye, and rest my wearied wing.



THE winds were yelling, the waves were swelling,

The sky was black and drear,

When the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship with

out a name

Alongside the last Buccaneer.

"Whence flies your sloop full sail before so fierce a gale, When all others drive bare on the seas?

Say, come ye from the shore of the holy Salvador,
Or the gulf of the rich Caribbees?"

"From a shore no search hath found, from a gulf no line can sound,

Without rudder or needle we steer;

Above, below, our bark, dies the sea fowl and the shark,

As we fly by the last Buccaneer.

"To-night there shall be heard on the rocks of Cape de Verde

A loud crash, and a louder roar;

And to-morrow shall the deep, with a heavy moaning sweep

The corpses and wreck to the shore."

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