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On Jordan's banks the Arab camels stray,
On Sion's hill the False One's votaries
pray—
The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep;
Yet there—even there—O God! thy thunders
sleep:
There, where thy finger scorch'd the tablet
stone;
There, where thy shadow to thy people
shone—
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire
(Thyself none living see and not expire).
Oh! in the lightning let thy glance
appear—
Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's
spear!
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod?
How long thy temple worshipless, O God!
Byron.
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