This holy rage, like sparks electric, flew
From man to man. Each urg'd his valiant friend,
To save their city, matrons, daughters, wives,
— As if on  their preservation hung.
Scarce could the pious King restrain their ardor,
So sure they seem'd of conquest and revenge.
But he, who knew that from th'almighty arm
Their foes' destruction only could proceed,
The gates of every temple open threw,
And, with humiliation deep, repair'd
Before the sacred altar of our God.
The soldiers, citizens, the nobles croud,
And ev'ry holy roof grew instant vocal.
Prostrate and weeping, they implor'd the High
For  sword, and mighty  arm.
"Shield us!" they cry'd — "Oh, save thy faithful people!
Nor give us to the mockers, for a scorn!
Omnipotence! preserve us from the yoke
The foe prepares for our devoted necks!
Humble the  who repose their strength,
Not on  arm, but in their own frail numbers!
To Thee! O God of Battles! we appeal.
Hear, hear our voice!" — When lo! from Heaven's bright concave,
In gracious intimation, that their prayers,
Wafted by guardian spirits, reach'd the throne,
A mighty peal of thunder rapt their ears,
And purple lightnings quiver in the sky.