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In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; 'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

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And where is that band who so vauntingly swore

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps'

pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 10 O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand

Between their loved homes and war's desolation ! Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued

land Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.

15 Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto .In God is our trust :' And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

THOMAS CAMPBELL

SCOTLAND, 1777–1844

Hohenlinden

On Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

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But Linden saw another sight
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

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By torch and trumpet fast array'd
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh’d,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven

Far flash'd the red artillery.

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But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainéd snow,
And darker yet shall be the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

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'Tis

morn, but scarce yon lurid sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

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The combat deepens. On, ye Brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!

And charge with all thy chivalry!

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Few, few, shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulcher.

THOMAS MOORE

IRELAND, 1779-1852

The Harp that once through Tara's Halls

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The harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise,

Now feel that pulse no more.

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No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells :
The chord alone that breaks at night,

Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,

To show that still she lives.

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GEORGE GORDON NOEL, LORD BYRON

ENGLAND, 1788–1824

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the sea,

Childe Harold's Farewell to England
Adieu, adieu! my native shore

Fades o’er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild sea mew.
Yon sun that sets

upon
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,

My native land — Good-night.
A few short hours and he will rise

To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,

But not my mother earth.

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Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;

My dog howls at the gate.

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“Come hither, hither, my little page!

Why dost thou weep and wail ?
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, ,

Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;

Our ship is swift and strong;
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along."

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“Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind:
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,

A mother whom I love,
And have no friends, save thee alone,

But thee — and One above.

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“My father blessed me fervently,

Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh

Till I come back again. "Enough, enough, my little lad!

Such tears become thine eye;

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