Page:Cheskian Anthology.pdf/41



Rather than for thirst our mount surrender,

Let us die the death that God provides us—

If we yield us to the tatars' sabres,

Basely, vilely—we commit self-murder.

Slavery's yoke is God's abomination,

'Tis a sin accurs'd to bend to bondage—

Track my steps—me steps—ye men, whose courage

Will escort me to the virgin's altar."

they crowded round, and sought the chapel—

"Lord! arouse thee in thy awful terrors!

Lord! restore their country to thy people;

Lord! revive us from our wretched sorrows!

Hear our voices calling on the loudly—

For our foes surround us—they surround us—

Save us from the snare-pits of the heathen:

Give us comfort, father! give refreshment—

Long and loud shall be thy people's praises;

Chase the foes that waste our hapless country,

And extirpate them, O God! for ever!"

Look! a cloud upon the sultry heaven—

Hark! the waking wind—the rolling thunder—