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Turn ye the waters from their course, Bid Nature yield to human force, And hollow in the torrent's bed A chamber for the mighty dead. The work is done—the captive's hand Hath well obey'd his lord's command. Within that royal tomb are cast The richest trophies of the past, The wealth of many a stately dome, The gold and gems of plunder'd Rome; And when the midnight stars are beaming, And ocean-waves in stillness gleaming, Stern in their grief, his warriors bear The Chastener of the Nations there; To rest, at length, from victory's toil, Alone, with all an empire's spoil!

Then the freed current's rushing wave Rolls o'er the secret of the grave; Then streams the martyr'd captives' blood To crimson that sepulchral flood, Whose conscious tide alone shall keep The mystery in its bosom deep.