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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-rob'd crowds their deep hosannas raise, And the hoarse flood repeats the sound of praise;

Ten thousand harps attune the mystic song,

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"Who died, who lives, triumphant o'er the grave!"

EUROPE:

LINES ON THE PRESENT WAR.

WRITTEN IN MDCCCIX.

ID. QVANDO. ACCIDERIT. NON. SATIS. AVDEO

EFFARI. SIQVIDEM. NON. CLARIVS. MIHI

PER. SACROS. TRIPODES. CERTA. REFERT. DEVS

NEC. SERVAT. PENITVS. FIDEM

QVOD. SI. QVID. LICEAT. CREDERE. ADHVC. TAMEN

NAM. LAEVVM. TONVIT. NON. FVERIT. PROCVL

QVAERENDVS. CELERI. QVI. PROPERET. GRADV

ET. GALLVM. REPRIMAT. FEROX

PETRVS. CRINITVS. IN. CARMINE

AD. BER, CARAPHAM.

EUROPE.

Ar that dread season when th' indignant North

Pour'd to vain wars her tardy numbers forth,

When Frederic bent his ear to Europe's cry,

And fann'd too late the flame of liberty;

By feverish hope oppress'd, and anxious thought,

In Dresden's grove the dewy cool I sought.

Through tangled boughs the broken moonshine play'd, And Elbe slept soft beneath his linden shade:-

Yet slept not all;-I heard the ceaseless jar,

The rattling waggons, and the wheels of war;
The sounding lash, the march's mingled hum,
And, lost and heard by fits, the languid drum;

O'er the near bridge the thundering hoofs that trode,

And the far-distant fife that thrill'd along the road.

Yes, sweet it seems across some watery dell

To catch the music of the pealing bell;

And sweet to list, as on the beach we stray,

The ship-boy's carol in the wealthy bay:-
But sweet no less, when Justice points the spear,
Of martial wrath the glorious din to hear,

To catch the war-note on the quivering gale,

And bid the blood-red paths of conquest hail.

Oh! song of hope, too long delusive strain!

And hear we now thy flattering voice again?
But late, alas! I left thee cold and still,

Stunn'd by the wrath of Heaven, on Pratzen's hill.

Oh! on that hill may no kind month renew

The fertile rain, the sparkling summer dew!

Accurs'd of God, may those bleak summits tell
The field of anger where the mighty fell.

There youthful Faith and high-born Courage rest,

And, red with slaughter, Freedom's humbled crest;

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