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SWORD, whose blade has ne’er been wet
 * With blood, except of freedom’s foes;

That hope which, though its sun be set,
 * Still with a starlight beauty glows;

A heart that worshipped in Romance
 * The Spirit of the buried Time,

And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance,
 * And ladye-love, and minstrel-rhyme;

These had been, and I deemed would be My joy, whate’er my destiny.

Born in a camp, its watch-fires bright
 * Alone illumed my cradle-bed;

And I had borne with wild delight
 * My banner where Bolivar led,

Ere manhood’s hue was on my cheek,
 * Or manhood’s pride was on my brow.

Its foes are furled—the war-bird’s beak
 * Is thirsty on the Andes now;

I longed, like her, for other skies Clouded by Glory’s sacrifice.