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God of the glorious realms of thought,
From which some simple hearts have caught

A ray divine.
And the songs which rouse the nations,
And the terrible orations,
Lord God are thine.

And all the forms of beauty rare,
Which toiling genius moulds with care,

Yea the sublime,
The sculptured busts of joy and woe
By thee were fashioned long ago,

In that far clime.

Far above earth, and space and time,
Thou dwellest in thy heights sublime.

Beneath thy feet
The rolling worlds, the heavens are spread,
Glory infinite round thee shed

Where angels meet.

From out thy wrath the earthquakes leap,
And shake the world's foundations deep,

Till nature groans.
In agony the mountains call,
And ocean bellows throughout all

Her frightened zones.

But where thy smile its glory sheds
The lilies lift their lovely heads,

And the primrose rare:
And the daisy deck'd with pearls,
Richer than the proudest Earls

On their mantles wear.

These thy preachers of the wild-wood, Keep they not the heart of childhood,

Fresh within us still. Spite of all our life's sad story, There are gleams of Thee and glory,

In the daffodil.

And old nature's heart rejoices,
And the rivers lift their voices,

And the sounding sea.
And the mountains old and hoary,
With their diadems of glory,

Shout Lord to thee.

But tho' Thou art high and holy, Thou dost love the poor and lowly,

With a love divine. Love infinite, love supernal, Love undying, love eternal,

Lord God are thine!


O sons of Italy awake,

Your hearths and altars are at stake,—

Arise, arise, for Freedom's sake,

And strike with Garibaldi!

The liberator now appears,
Foretold by prophets, bards and seers,
The hero sprung from blood and tears,
All hail to Garibaldi!

Let serfs and cowards fear and quake, -
O Venice, Naples, Rome awake,
Like lava of your burning lake,
Rush on with Garibaldi!

Up and avenge your country's shame,

Like jEtna belching forth her. flame,

Rush-on in freedom's holy name,

And strike with Garibaldi!

'Tis freedom thunders in your ears,
The weary night of blood and tears,
The sorrows of a thousand years,
Cry on with Garibaldi!

The shades that hover round your faces,
The blood of heroes in your veins,
Keep shouting, Rise and break your chains,
And on with Garibaldi!

And tongues in many a dungeon stone,
And prison walls are shouting on,
And sweep the madman from his throne,
Then on with Garibaldi!

The Roman Eagle is not dead,
Her mighty wings again are spread,
To swoop upon the tyrant's head,
And strike with Garibaldi!

The drum of Bomba's doom does beat,
The shadows of the murdered meet,
To drag him to the judgment seat,
Then on with Garibaldi!

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