xx.
Know'st thou what thou hast done, thou dark-hair'd
child?
What great events on thy compassion hung?
What prowess lurks beneath yon aspect mild,
And in the accents of that foreign tongue?
As little knew the princess who descried
A floating speck on Egypt's turbid tide,—
A bulrush-ark, the matted reeds among,
And, yielding to an infant's tearful smile,
Drew forth Jehovah's seer from the devouring Nile.
xxi.
In many a clime, in many a battle tried,
By Turkish sabre, and by Moorish spear;
'Mid Afric's sands, or Russian forests wide,
Romantic, bold, chivalrous, and sincere,
Keen-ey'd, clear-minded, and of purpose pure,
Dauntless to rule, or patient to endure,
Was he whom thou hast rescued with a tear:
Thou wert the saviour of the Saxon vine,
And for this deed alone our praise and love are thine.
xxii.
Nor yet for this alone, shall history's scroll
Embalm thine image with a grateful tear;
For when the grasp of famine tried the soul,
When strength decay'd, and dark despair was near,
