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182 Hopes—that the children of their prayers,
 * With them in valor vieing,

May do as noble deeds as theirs,
 * In living and in dying.

And make, for children yet to come,
 * The land of their bequeathing

The imperial and the peerless home
 * Of happiest beings breathing.

For this the warrior-path we tread,
 * The battle-path of duty,

And change, for field and forest-bed,
 * Our bowers of love and beauty.

Music! bid thy minstrels play
 * No tunes of grief or sorrow,

Let them cheer the living brave to-day,
 * They may wail the dead to-morrow.

Such were the words, unvoiced by lip or tongue, The thought-enwoven themes, the mental song Of One, high placed, beside the slumberer’s bower, In the stern, silent chieftainship of power. A War-king, seated on his saddle throne, A listener to no counsels but his own, The soldier leader of a soldier band, Whose prescient skill, quick eye, and brief command,