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Rh His plighted maiden, when she fears For him the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears:
 * And she, the mother of thy boys,

Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak,
 * The memory of her buried joys,

And even she who gave thee birth, Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
 * Talk of thy doom without a sigh:

For thou art Freedom’s now, and Fame’s: One of the few, the immortal names,
 * That were not born to die.