XXII.
Shout, ye seven hills! Lo! Christian pennons streaming
Red o'er the waters6[1]! 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
Of smoke floats up th' exulting winds before!
XXIII.
The rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe's, Asia's coast,
All throng'd! one theatre for kingly war!
A monarch girt with his Barbaric host,
Points o'er the beach his flashing scymetar!
Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar,
Hands waving banners o'er each battlement,
Decks, with their serried guns, array'd to bar
The promis'd aid; but hark! a shout is sent
