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Thither unborn descendants of the slain, Still throng, as pilgrim’s to some holy fane, While, as they trace each spot, whose records tell, Where fought their fathers, and prevail'd, and fell, Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow, Claiming proud kindred with the dust below! And many on age shall see the brave repair, To learn the Hero's bright devotion there.

And well, Ausonia! may that field of fame, From thee one song of echoing triumph claim. Land of the lyre! 'twas there th' avenging sword, Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored; Those precious trophies o'er thy realms that throw A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe, And bid the stranger for awhile forget How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet.