And the songs at Rome’s high triumphs pour’d
Are with her eagles flown.
And mute the Moorish horn that rang
O’er stream and mountain free;
And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang
Hath died in Galilee.
But thou art swelling on, thou deep!
Through many an olden clime,
Thy billowy anthem, ne’er to sleep
Until the close of time.