A Bright-Haired Company Of Youthful Slaves, Beautiful Strangers, Stand Within The Pale Of A Sad Market, Ranged For Public Sale, Where Tiber'S Stream The Immortal City Laves: Angli By Name; And Not An Angel Waves His Wing Who Could Seem Lovelier To Man'S Eye Than They Appear To Holy Gregory; Who, Having Learnt That Name, Salvation Craves For Them, And For Their Land. The Earnest Sire, His Questions Urging, Feels, In Slender Ties Of Chiming Sound, Commanding Sympathies; De-Irians, He Would Save Them From God'S Ire; Subjects Of Saxon Aella, They Shall Sing Glad Halle-Lujahs To The Eternal King!