| |
| ON Rome’s devoted head the bolt descends; | |
| The proud oppressor’s long dominion ends: | |
| Spirits of martyrs pure! if aught ye know, | |
| In the bright realms of bliss, of things below, | |
| Join the glad hymn of triumph, ye who stood | 5 |
| Firm for the faith, and seal’d it with your blood. | |
| No more shall Rome disturb the world’s repose, | |
| Quench’d is her torch, and blood no longer flows; | |
| Crush’d is the fell destroyer in her turn, | |
| And the freed world insults her hated urn. | 10 |
| O Truth divine! thou choicest gift of God! | |
| Man’s guide and solace in this drear abode! | |
| Plain was thy garb, and lovely was thy mien, | |
| When usher’d by the spotless Nazarene: | |
| From shouting crowds and pageantry he fled, | 15 |
| To the lone desert or the pauper’s shed; | |
| There taught his humble followers to despise | |
| All that the proud affect, or worldlings prize; | |
| Truly he gave to man’s repentant race, | |
| The peerless treasures of his sovereign grace; | 20 |
| Yet bade no fires descend, no thunders roll, | |
| To force his bounty on the wayward soul. | |
| Join then, celestial Truth, the glad acclaim; | |
| Crush’d is the proud usurper of thy name; | |
| Who first with blood thy snow-white robes distain’d, | 25 |
| And with vain pomp thy holy rites profaned. | |
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