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TILL her gray rocks tower above the sea
 * That crouches at their feet, a conquered wave;

’Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree,
 * Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave;

Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free,
 * And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave;

And where none kneel, save when to Heaven they pray, Nor even then, unless in their own way.

Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong,
 * A “fierce democracie,” where all are true

To what themselves have voted—right or wrong—
 * And to their laws denominated blue;

(If red, they might to Draco’s code belong;)
 * A vestal state, which power could not subdue,

Nor promise win—like her own eagle’s nest, Sacred—the San Marino of the West.