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It hath led the freeman forth to stand In the mountain-battles of his land; It' hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze; And back to the gates of his father's hall, It hath led the weeping prodigal.

Yes! when thy heart in its pride would stray From the pure first loves of its youth away; When the sullying breath of the world would come O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home; Think thou again of the woody glade, And the sound by the rustling ivy made, Think of the tree at thy father's door, And the kindly spell shall have power once more!