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" But ye, its sons, will ne'er give up Your parent fires till death ; Behold ! yon beauteous virgins seek Laurel your brows to wreathe.
" Bear on your minds the noble deeds Your ancestors achieved; How many worthy Britons bled, To have their children freed!
" See on the meteors of the night Their spirits wanly "fly ! Roused from their graven by your distress; Hark ! thus I heard them cry.
" ' Was it for this, ye mothers dear ! Ye nursed your tender babes ? Was it for this, our yet loved sons! We sheathed our trusty blades ?
" ' 0 ! genius of our ancient times ! Be thou our children'^ guide, To arms ! to arms !'—They call to arms, And stalk in martial pride.