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Rh To them the nobler heights of fame belong; Each heart admires, each lip is warm with praise; Each hand would weave the victor-chieftain's bays. Warrior, this praise is thine! but there will be A purer, holier, dearer mead for thee: Thine was the arm that stopp'd the destin'd blow, And spar'd the triumph of a fallen foe. The wreath that valour's deeds must gain is bright— But its chief lustre flows from mercy's light.