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My father's sword is in my hand, His deep voice haunts mine ear; He tells me of the noble band, Whose lives have left a brooding glory here.

He bids their offspring guard from stain Their pure and lofty faith; And yield up all things, to maintain The cause, for which they girt themselves to death.

And I obey.—I leave their towers Unto the stranger's tread; Unto the creeping grass and flowers; Unto the fading pictures of the dead.

I leave their shields to slow decay, Their banners to the dust; I go, and only bear away Their old, majestic name,—a solemn trust!