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Rh And call’d the “kingdom” of a conquering foe,— But knows what all—and, most of all, we know— With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles!

The name of Commonwealth is past and gone O’er the three fractions of the groaning globe; Venice is crush’d, and Holland deigns to own A sceptre, and endures the purple robe; If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone His chainless mountains, ’tis but for a time, For tyranny of late is cunning grown, And in its own good season tramples down The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and Bequeath’d—a heritage of heart and hand, And proud distinction from each other land, Whose sons must bow them at a monarch’s motion, As if his senseless sceptre were a wand Full of the magic of exploded science— Still one great clime, in full and free defiance,