Soon must this fair and royal city fall,
Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall;
Then who can tell what tides of blood may flow,
While her fanes echo to the shrieks of woe?
Fly, fly with me, and let me bear thee far
From horrors thronging in the path of war:
Fly, and repose in safety—till the blast
Hath made a desert in its course—and pass’d!”
“Thou that wilt triumph when the hour is come
Hasten’d by thee, to seal thy country’s doom,