Nor less, whilst, hovering o'er th' embattled field,
Her palms to thee fond Victory shall yield,
Let Mercy plead: no hero's truly brave
Without that god-like principle — To save:
Distress should bid our generous pity flow;
Whilst Nature softens at another's woe.
By me releas'd, O! how the Jewish choir
To Sion's songs re-tun'd the sacred lyre,
Which by the streams of Babylon, unstrung,
In late sad silence on the willows hung!
Dismiss'd with presents to their old abode,
To build the temple of their much-lov'd God,
Each mouth was full of laughter long unknown;
The joy, that sill'd their hearts, o'erflow'd my own.