And, circling all with arms, that turban’d race—
The sun, the desert, stamp’d in each dark haughty face.
XXII.
Shout, ye seven hills! Lo! Christian pennons streaming
Red o’er the waters![210] Hail, deliverers, hail!
Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming,
Is Hope’s own smile! They crowd the swelling sail,
On, with the foam, the sunbeam and the gale,
Borne, as a victor’s car! The batteries pour
Their clouds and thunders; but the rolling veil