XXXIV

The turbaned Race are poured in thickening swarms

Along the west; though driven from Aquitaine,

The Crescent glitters on the towers of Spain;

And soft Italia feels renewed alarms;

The scimitar, that yields not to the charms

Of ease, the narrow Bosphorus will disdain;

Nor long ( that crossed ) would Grecian hills detain

Their tents, and check the current of their arms.

Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever

Known to the moral world, Imagination,

Upheave, so seems it, from her natural station

All Christendom:— they sweep along ( was never

So huge a host! ) — to tear from the Unbeliever

The precious Tomb, their haven of salvation.