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Rh Art thou indeed among these, Thou of the tyrannous crew, The kingdoms fed upon blood, O queen from of old of the seas, England, art thou of them, too. That drink of the poisonous flood, That hide under poisonous trees?

Nay, thy name from of old. Mother, was pure, or we dreamed; Purer we held thee than this, Purer fain would we hold; So goodly a glory it seemed, A fame so bounteous of bliss, So more precious than gold.

Strangers came gladly to thee. Exiles, chosen of men. Safe for thy sake in thy shade. Sat down at thy feet and were free. So men spake of thee then; Now shall their speaking be stayed? Ah, so let it not be! Not for revenge or affright. Pride or a tyrannous lust, Cast from thee the crown of thy praise. Mercy was thine in thy might. Strong when thou wert, thou wert just; Now, in the wrong-doing days. Cleave thou, thou at least, to the right.

Freeman he is not, but slave, Whoso in fear for the State Cries for surety of blood. Help of gibbet and grave; Neither is any land great Whom, in her fear-stricken mood, These things only can save.

Lo, how fair from afar, Taintless of tyranny, stands Thy mighty daughter, for years Who trod the winepress of war;