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14 There had the glad earth drunk their blood
 * On old Platæa’s day;

And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there, With arm to strike and soul to dare,
 * As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on—the Turk awoke;
 * That bright dream was his last;

He woke—to hear his sentries shriek, “To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!” He woke—to die midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
 * And death-shots falling thick and fast

As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
 * Bozzaris cheer his band:

“Strike—till the last armed foe expires; Strike—for your altars and your fires; Strike—for the green graves of your sires;
 * God—and your native land!”

They fought—like brave men, long and well;
 * They piled that ground with Moslem slain,

They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,
 * Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah,
 * And the red field was won;