But hallowed page, and David's lyre,
And thine their hearts inspire.
And now they tread the hot and barren shore;
And now, by floods bereft of all their humble store.
Thy pen it is that wins relief.
But soon they lose their chief—
The conquest of the desert has begun,
And a far fiercer fight must by his blade be won:
The battle of the Press. Full sore
The rain of blows he bore!
Fainting with wounds he quits the well-fought field,
But not before the shout telling the foemen yield.
And yet again with gleaming brand,
One of a hero-band,
The world beholds him: on Oppression's grave
His hand doth plant the Hag that frees the trembling slave.
Hard seems the fate that once again
Forbids the knight to drain
The cup, to feast and grace the board with song,—
Death beckons him: he glides from that illustrious throng.
Then Calumny, once timorous-tame,
Grew bold and, crawling, came,
With the vile brood that haunts her loathsome cave;
They gibber round and spill their venom on his grave.
