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132 NATHAN HALE. |
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He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves,
As he pass'd thro' the wood; as he pass'd thro' the wood; And silently gain'd his rude launch on the shore, As she play'd with the flood; as she play'd with the flood.
The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night, Had a murderous will; had a murderous will.
They took him and bore him afar from the shore. To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill.
No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer, In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell.
But he trusted in love, from his father above.
In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well
An ominous owl with his solemn base voice, Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by. " The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice, " For he must soon die ; for he must soon die."
The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrain'd,
The cruel gen'ral; the cruel gen'ral. His errand from camp, of the ends to be gain'd,
And said that was all; and said that was all. |
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