Apply your mind to her rampart, Pass between her palaces, That ye may recount them to an after generation;

Though ye rest between the folds, The wings of the dove, shall be covered with silver, And, her pinions, with green-shimmering gold.

Who hast sent forth springs, through the torrent-beds, Between the mountains, they flow along;

Then would he have bidden to destroy them, - had not Moses his chosen, stood in the breach before him, To turn back his wrath from destroying.