11. 
The eager hours and unreluctant years
As on a dawn-illumined mountain stood. 
Trampling to silence their loud hopes and fears,
Darkening each other with their multitude,
And cried aloud, ‘Liberty!’ Indignation 155
Answered Pity from her cave;
Death grew pale within the grave,
And Desolation howled to the destroyer, Save! 
When like Heaven’s Sun girt by the exhalation
Of its own glorious light, thou didst arise. 160
Chasing thy foes from nation unto nation
Like shadows:  as if day had cloven the skies
At dreaming midnight o’er the western wave,
Men started, staggering with a glad surprise,
Under the lightnings of thine unfamiliar eyes. 165

12. 
Thou Heaven of earth! what spells could pall thee then
In ominous eclipse? a thousand years
Bred from the slime of deep Oppression’s den. 
Dyed all thy liquid light with blood and tears. 
Till thy sweet stars could weep the stain away; 170
How like Bacchanals of blood
Round France, the ghastly vintage, stood
Destruction’s sceptred slaves, and Folly’s mitred brood! 
When one, like them, but mightier far than they,
The Anarch of thine own bewildered powers, 175
Rose:  armies mingled in obscure array,
Like clouds with clouds, darkening the sacred bowers
Of serene Heaven.  He, by the past pursued,
Rests with those dead, but unforgotten hours,
Whose ghosts scare victor kings in their ancestral towers. 180

13. 
England yet sleeps:  was she not called of old? 
Spain calls her now, as with its thrilling thunder
Vesuvius wakens Aetna, and the cold
Snow-crags by its reply are cloven in sunder: 
O’er the lit waves every Aeolian isle 185
From Pithecusa to Pelorus
Howls, and leaps, and glares in chorus: 
They cry, ‘Be dim; ye lamps of Heaven suspended o’er us!’
Her chains are threads of gold, she need but smile
And they dissolve; but Spain’s were links of steel, 190
Till bit to dust by virtue’s keenest file. 
Twins of a single destiny! appeal
To the eternal years enthroned before us
In the dim West; impress us from a seal,
All ye have thought and done!  Time cannot dare conceal. 195

14. 
Tomb of Arminius! render up thy dead
Till, like a standard from a watch-tower’s staff,
His soul may stream over the tyrant’s head;
Thy victory shall be his epitaph,
Wild Bacchanal of truth’s mysterious wine, 200
King-deluded Germany,
His dead spirit lives in thee. 
Why do we fear or hope? thou art already free! 
And thou, lost Paradise of this divine
And glorious world! thou flowery wilderness! 205
Thou island of eternity! thou shrine
Where Desolation, clothed with loveliness,
Worships the thing thou wert!  O Italy,
Gather thy blood into thy heart; repress
The beasts who make their dens thy sacred palaces. 210