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 Who are clothed as with flame from the altar, That the kings of the earth, repining, Far off, watch from afar?

Woe is ours if we doubt or dissemble, Woe, if our hearts not abide. Are our chiefs not among us, we said, Great chiefs, living and dead, To lead us glad to be led? For whose sake, if a man of us tremble, He shall not be on our side.

What matter if these lands tarry, That tarried (we said) not of old? France, made drunken by fate, England, that bore up the weight Once of men’s freedom, a freight Holy, but heavy to carry For hands overflowing with gold.

Though this be lame, and the other Fleet, but blind from the sun, And the race be no more to these, Alas! nor the palm to seize, Who are weary and hungry of ease, Yet, O Freedom, we said, O our mother, Is there not left to thee one?