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Have thrill'd their pines, when those that knelt to pray Rose up to arm! the pure, high snows have known A colouring not their own, But from true hearts which by that crimson stain Gave token of a trust that call'd no suffering vain.

Those days are past—the mountains wear no more The solemn splendour of the martyr's blood, And may that awful record, as of yore, Never again be known to field or flood! E'en though the faithful stood, A noble army, in the exulting sight Of earth and heaven, which bless'd their battle for the right!

But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken Is yet borne silently in homes obscure; And many a bitter cup is meekly taken;