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58 In Greece, the brave heart’s Holy Land,
 * Its soldier-song the bugle sings;

And I have buckled on my brand,
 * And waited but the sea-wind’s wings,

To bear me where, or lost or won
 * Her battle, in its frown or smile,

Men live with those of Marathon,
 * Or die with those of Scio’s isle;

And find in Valor’s tent or tomb, In life or death, a glorious home.

I could have left but yesterday
 * The scene of my boy-years behind,

And floated on my careless way
 * Wherever willed the breathing wind.

I could have bade adieu to aught
 * I’ve sought, or met, or welcomed here,

Without an hour of shaded thought,
 * A sigh, a murmur, or a tear.

Such was I yesterday—but then I had not known thee, Magdalen.

To-day there is a change within me,
 * There is a weight upon my brow,

And Fame, whose whispers once could win me
 * From all I loved, is powerless now.