Baal Zephon

Was it the shout of storms that rent the sky ?
The rush of many a whirlwind from its lair ?
Or be the fierce Maozzim loose on high ? —
The old Gods of the North : the Demons of the Air !

Those Tartar hills ! billowy with writhing men ;
That yelling Euxine ! throttled with her dead :
The quivering air, as thick with ghosts as when
The severed souls of Syrian's armies fled !

Ah fatal field ! Ah doomed and deadly sea !
Where be the hosts of God ? — that ancient band ;
Michael the Prince ! and Uriel ! — where are ye,
That once did valiantly for English land ?

Shun ye the flaunting Crescent's baleful sign ;
The circumcised hordes of vile Mahound :
Or is the Red-Cross banner loath to shine
Where Scythian fiends beset the shuddering ground ?

Lords of the vassal air, the lightning-tongue,
The harnessed fires, with footsteps like the storm !
Where is your vaunt, and what your strength among
Those riders of the cloud, with battle warm ?

Sound the stern signal ! summon sea and shore ;
Clothe many a steed with thunder for the war ! —
An angel, standing at a cottage door
To guard a peasant's child, is mightier far !

Oh for the Sigil ! or the chanted spell !
The pentacle that Demons know and dread ! —
So should Maozzim flee, with baffled yell,
And the lulled Euxine smooth its billowy bed.

Arise O Lord ! stretch forth Thy red right hand !
Smite the strong Dragon and his Scythian lair !
God visible ! among the nations stand
And bid the traitor Russ thy banished Name declare !