Nor Wants The Cause The Panic-Striking Aid Of Hallelujahs Tost From Hill To Hill For Instant Victory. But Heaven'S High Will Permits A Second And A Darker Shade Of Pagan Night. Afflicted And Dismayed, The Relics Of The Sword Flee To The Mountains: O Wretched Land! Whose Tears Have Flowed Like Fountains; Whose Arts And Honours In The Dust Are Laid By Men Yet Scarcely Conscious Of A Care For Other Monuments Than Those Of Earth; Who, As The Fields And Woods Have Given Them Birth, Will Build Their Savage Fortunes Only There; Content, If Foss, And Barrow, And The Girth Of Long-Drawn Rampart, Witness What They Were.