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While sadly we gazed on the river

Which roll’d on in freedom below,

They demanded the song; but, oh never

That triumph the stranger shall know ! May this right hand be withered for ever,

Ere it string our high harp for the foe!


On the willow that harp is suspended,

Oh Salem! its sound should be free;

And the hour when thy glories were ended

But left me that token of thee:

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended

With the voice of the spoiler by me!



The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee,


Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen:

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath


That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.


For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;

And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew

still !


And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

But through it there roll'd not the breath of his

pride :

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.


And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his


And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.


And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord !

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