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Then, Genoa, from their slumber started Thy sons, the free, the fearless hearted; Then mingled with th' awakening peal Voices, and steps, and clash of steel. Arm, warriors, arm! for danger calls, Arise to guard your native walls! With breathless haste the gathering throng Hurry the echoing streets along; Through darkness rushing to the scene Where their bold counsels still convene. —But there a blaze of torches bright Pours its red radiance on the night, O'er fane, and dome, and column playing, With every fitful night-wind swaying, Now floating o'er each tall arcade, Around the pillar'd scene display'd, In light relieved by depth of shade; And now, with ruddy meteor-glare, Full streaming on the silvery hair And the bright cross of him who stands, Rearing that sign with suppliant hands, Girt with his consecrated train, The hallow'd servants of the fane.