wings expand;
    Which, through the dangers of that dusky way,
    Where all deplore the first infringed command,
    Will guide her safe, from primal bondage free,
    Reckless to stop or stay,
    To that true East, where she desires to be.

      Haply the faithful vows, and zealous prayers,
    And pious tears by holy mortals shed,
    Have come before the mercy-seat above: 
    Yet vows of ours but little can bestead,
    Nor human orison such merit bears
    As heavenly justice from its course can move. 
    But He, the King whom angels serve and love,
    His gracious eyes hath turn’d upon the land
    Where on the cross He died;
    And a new Charlemagne hath qualified
    To work the vengeance that on high was plann’d,
    For whose delay so long hath Europe sigh’d. 
    Such mighty aid He brings his faithful spouse,
    That at its sound the pride
    Of Babylon with trembling terror bows.

      All dwellers ’twixt the hills and wild Garonne,
    The Rhodanus, and Rhine, and briny wave,
    Are banded under red-cross banners brave;
    And all who honour’d guerdon fain would have
    From Pyrenees to the utmost west, are gone,
    Leaving Iberia lorn of warriors keen,
    And Britain, with the islands that are seen
    Between the columns and the starry wain,
    (Even to that land where shone
    The far-famed lore of sacred Helicon,)
    Diverse in language, weapon, garb and strain,
    Of valour true, with pious zeal rush on. 
    What cause, what love, to this compared may be? 
    What spouse, or infant train
    E’er kindled such a righteous enmity?

      There is a portion of the world that lies
    Far distant from the sun’s all-cheering ray,
    For ever wrapt in ice and gelid snows;
    There under cloudy skies, in stinted day,
    A people dwell, whose heart their clime outvies
    By nature framed stern foemen of repose. 
    Now new devotion in their bosom glows,
    With Gothic fury now they grasp the sword. 
    Turk, Arab, and Chaldee,
    With all between us and that sanguine sea,
    Who trust in idol-gods, and slight the Lord,
    Thou know’st how soon their feeble strength would yield;
    A naked race, fearful and indolent,
    Unused the brand to wield,
    Whose distant aim upon the wind is sent.

      Now is the time to shake the ancient yoke
    From off our necks, and rend the veil aside
    That long in darkness hath involved our eyes;
    Let all whom Heaven with genius hath supplied,
    And all who great Apollo’s name invoke,
    With fiery eloquence point out the prize,
    With tongue and pen call on the brave to rise;
    If Orpheus and Amphion, legends old,
    No marvel cause in thee,
    It were small wonder if Ausonia see
    Collecting at thy call her children bold,
    Lifting the spear of Jesus joyfully. 
    Nor, if our ancient mother judge aright,
    Doth her rich page unfold
    Such noble cause in any former fight.