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There | were his young barbarians all at play, | There | was their Dacian mother | —he, their sire, Butchered | to make a Roman holiday. | All this rushed with his blood. | Shall he expire, And unavenged ?—Arise, | ye Goths, and glut your ire !
Byron. " Childe Harold."
They never fail | who die In a great cause : | the block may soak their gore ; | Their heads | may sodden in the sun ; | their limbs Be strung | to city gates and castle walls | — But still their spirit walks abroad. | Though years Elapse, | and others share as dark a doom, | They but augment | the deep and sweeping thoughts J Which overpower all others, | and conduct The world | at last | to freedom.
Small service | is true service, | while it lasts : | Of friends, however humble, | scorn not one ; |
The daisy | by the shadow that it casts, |
Protects | the lingering dew-drop | from the sun.
Yet think not J that I come to urge thy crimes : \
I do not come to curse thee, | Guinevere, |
I, | whose vast pity al | most makes me die |
To see thee laying there | thy golden head, |
My pride in happier summers, | at my feet. |
The wrath | which forced my thoughts on that fierce law, |
The doom of treason | and of flaming death, |
(When first I learnt thee hidden here) | is past, |
The pang, | which while I weighed thy heart with one |
Too wholly true | to dream untruth in thee, j