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Before us each cloud fastness breaks;
And o'er slant inward wastes of light,
And past the moving mirage lakes,
And on within the Lord's own sight—
We hunt the chosen of the Lord;
And cease not, in wild course elate,
Until we see the flaming sword
And Gabriel before His gate!
O many a fair and noble prey
Falls bitterly beneath our chase;
And no man till the judgment day,
Hath power to give these burial place;
But down in many a stricken home
About the world, for these they mourn;
And seek them yet through Christendom
In all the lands where they were born.
And oft, when Hell's dread prevalence
Is past, and once more to the earth
In chains of narrowed human sense
We turn,—around our place of birth,
