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On dim Cithaeron's ridge appears The gleam of twice ten thousand spears; And downward to the Isthmian plain, From shore to shore of either main, The tent is pitched, the crescent shines Along the Moslem's leaguering lines; And the dusk Spae'hi's bands advance Beneath each bearded pae'sha's glance; And far and wide as eye can reach The turbaned cohorts throng the beach; And there the Arab's camel kneels, And there his steed the Tartar wheels; The Turcoman has left his herd, The sabre round his loins to gird; And there the volleying thunders pour, Till waves grow smoother to the roar.
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