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 Who feels their triumph, as her oceans, wide,

And sorrows for her unreturning brave.

Peace is their martyr-crown:

No length of years

Can chill her love or lessen their renown!—

But ah! her pæan falters, hushed in tears.

Who are these advancing

With bugle note and drum,

Their bayonets far glancing?

Say, who are these that come?

They are thy sons, Great Mother!

Such sons hath any other?

Be comforted, and bless them as they come!

Be comforted! Though all

Respond not to thy voice,