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Rh Save the few spirits, who, despite of all, And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender’d By the down-thundering of the prison-wall, And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender’d, Gushing from Freedom’s fountains—when the crowd, Madden’d with centuries of drought, are loud, And trample on each other to obtain The cup which brings oblivion of a chain Heavy and sore,—in which long yoked they plough’d The sand,—or if there sprung the yellow grain, ’Twas not for them, their necks were too much bow’d, And their dead palates chew’d the cud of pain:— Yes! the few spirits—who, despite of deeds Which they abhor, confound not with the cause Those momentary starts from Nature’s laws, Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth With all her seasons to repair the blight With a few summers, and again put forth Cities and generations—fair, when free— For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee!