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For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep By the dying babe, her place, And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep, Yet not behold its face!

Darkness in chieftain's hall! Darkness in peasant's cot! While freedom, under that shadowy pall, Sat mourning o'er her lot. Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize! For blood hath flow'd like rain, Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries Of England's homes again.

Heap the yule-faggots high, Till the red light fills the room! It is home's own hour when the stormy sky Grows thick with evening-gloom.