He looks with larger sight
Than they who hedge their view by present things,
The small, parochial world
Of sight and touch: and what he sees, he sings.

The steel-shell'd host, that, gleaming as it turns,
Like autumn lightning burns,
A moment's azure, the fresh flags that glance
As cornflowers o'er the corn,
Till war's stern step show like a gala dance,

He also sees; and pierces to the heart,
Scanning the genuine part
Each Red-Cross pilgrim plays: Some, gold-enticed;
By love or lust or fame
Urged; or who yearn to kiss the grave of Christ

And find their own, life-wearied:--Motley band!
O! ere they quit the Land
How maim'd, how marr'd, how changed from all that pride
In which so late they left
Orwell or Thames, with sails out-swelling wide

And music tuneable with the timing oar
Clear heard from shore to shore;
All Europe streaming to the mystic East!
--Now on their sun-smit ranks
The dusky squadrons close in vulture-feast,

And that fierce Day-star's blazing ball their sight