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The chiefs whose dust around them shimber'd.

They fell devoted, but undying; The very gale their names seem'd sighing : The waters murmured of their name; The woods were peopled with their fame; The silent pillar, lone and gray, Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay; Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain; The meanest rill, the mightiest river, Roll'd mingling with their fame for ever. Despite of every yoke she bears, That land is glory's still and theirs! 'Tis still a watch-word to the earth: When man would do a deed of worth He points to Greece and turns to tread, So sanctioned, on the tyrant's head: He looks to her, and rushes on Where life is lost, or freedom won.

Byron.

O! Let thy soul remember, what the will of heaven ordains is good for all; and if for all, then good for thee.

Akenside.