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Rh What we believe in invites no one, promises nothing,
 * sits in calmness and light, is positive and composed,
 * knows no discouragement,

Waits patiently its time—a year—a century—a
 * hundred centuries,

The battle rages with many a loud alarm and frequent
 * advance and retreat,

The infidel triumphs—or supposes he triumphs, The prison, scaffold, garrote, hand-cuffs, iron necklace
 * and anklet, lead-balls, do their work,

The named and unnamed heroes pass to other
 * spheres,

The great speakers and writers are exiled—they lie
 * sick in distant lands,

The cause is asleep—the strongest throats are still,
 * choked with their own blood,

The young men drop their eyelashes toward the
 * ground when they meet,

But for all this, liberty has not gone out of the place,
 * nor the infidel entered into possession.

When liberty goes out of a place, it is not the first
 * to go, nor the second or third to go,

It waits for all the rest to go—it is the last.

When there are no more memories of the superb
 * lovers of the nations of the world,

The superb lovers' names scouted in the public
 * gatherings by the lips of the orators,

Boys not christened after them, but christened after
 * traitors and murderers instead,