Hither they came, with haughty brow,
They conquer'd here,—where are they now?—
Ask the hoarse vulture with her new-flesh'd beak,
Bid the gaunt watch-dog speak,
Who bay'd so long around his murder'd master's door,—
They, with shriek and ban can tell
The burial-place of the infidel,
Go! bind thy turban round thy brow of shame,
And hurl the mutter'd curse at thy false prophet's name.
Ancient and beautiful!—who stand'st alone
In the dire crusade, while with hearts of stone
Thy sister nations close the leaden eye
Regardless of thine agony,
Such friends had He, who once with bursting pore,
On sad Gethsemane a lost world's burden bore.—
Leave, leave the sacred steep
Where thy lorn muses weep,
Forth from thy sculptured halls,
Thy pilgrim-haunted walls,
Thy classic fountains' chrystal flood,
Go!—angel-strengthen'd to the field of blood.—
Raise thy white arm,—unbind thy wreathed hair,
And God's dread name upon thy breastplate wear,
Stand in His might, till the pure cross arise
O'er the proud minaret, and woo propitious skies.
