Purged with the storm and fire, and bade to grow
To greatness, with a progress firm but slow--
That being the grand condition of duration--
Until it spreads into the mighty nation!
And shall the usurper, insolent of power,
O'erwhelm it with swift ruin in an hour!
And hurl his bolts, and with a dominant will,
Say to its mighty heart--'Crouch, and be still!
My foot is on your neck! I am your Fate!
Can speak your doom, and make you desolate!'"



III.


"No! He shall know--I am the Lord of war;
And all his mighty hosts but pigmies are!
His hellish engines, wrought for human woe,
His arts and vile inventions, and his power,
My arm shall bring to ruin, swift and low!
Even now my bolts are aimed, my storm-clouds lower,
And I will arm my people with a faith,
Shall make them free of fear, and free of scaith;
Arid they shall bear from me a smiting sword,
Edged with keen lightning, at whose stroke is poured
A torrent of destruction and swift wrath,
Sweeping--the insolent legions from their path!
The usurper shall be taught that none shall take--
The right to punish and avenge from me: