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316 Has called from their eternal rest The poets and the chiefs who blest
 * Old Europe in her happier hour:

Thou givest to the buried great A citizen’s certificate;
 * And, aliens now no more,

The children of each classic town Shall emulate their sires’ renown
 * In science, wisdom, or in war.

The bard who treads on Homer’s earth
 * Shall mount the epic throne,

And pour, like breezes of the north, Such spirit-stirring stanzas forth
 * As Paulding would not blush to own.

And he, who casts around his eyes Where Hampden’s bright stone-fences rise,
 * Shall swear with thrilling joint,

As German55 did—“We yet are free, And this accursed tax should be
 * Resisted at the bayonet’s point!”

What man, where Scipio’s praises skip
 * From every rustling leaf,

But girds cold iron on his hip, With “Shoulder firelock!” arms his lip
 * And struts a bold militia chief!

And who that breathes where Cato lies,