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The boasted chivalry of yore you can, you must, maintain; Let not the scars our fathers bore for us, be borne in vain ! Degenerate sons of noble sires, by baleful, wild, fanatic fires,
And madden'd folly mov'd, Profaned their Hero's sacred dust—betrayed their country's sacred trust,
And double traitors proved.
They've rais'd the fratricidal hand—they've shed their brother's
blood— Spread desolation thro' your land with sword and fire and
blood, Your desecrated altars lie ensanguin'd in the deepest dye
Of holy things profaned • Your homes and towns in ruins piled—your matrons, maids— your very child
With foul pollution stained.
Then rise, ye sons of free-born sires, once more ! and freedom's won, Kindle again the fervid fires that giow'd in sixty-one ! Your heritage your foes menace—secure it from their foul embrace—
Your chains asunder burst! What tho' they count as harvest-seed—as fathers bled, their sons must bleed,
Or be fore'er accursed ! |
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