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'Tis vain—we deem the war-feud's rage A portion of our heritage. Leaders, now slumbering with their fame, Bequeath'd us that undying flame; Hearts that have long been still and cold Yet rule us from their silent mould, And voices, heard on earth no more, Speak to our spirits as of yore. Talk not of mercy—blood alone The stain of bloodshed may atone; Nought else can pay that mighty debt, The dead forbid us to forget."

He pauses—from the patriarch's brow There beams more lofty grandeur now; His reverend form, his aged hand, Assume a gesture of command, His voice is awful, and his eye Fill'd with prophetic majesty.

“The dead!—and deem'st thou they retain Aught of terrestrial passion's stain? Of guilt incurr'd in days gone by, Aught but the fearful penalty?