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Men in whose bosoms Nature's voice hath made Its accents as the solitary sound Of an o'erpowering torrent, silencing Th' austere and yet divine remonstrances Whisper'd by faith and honour, lift thy hands, And, to that Heaven, which arms the brave with strength, Pray, that the father of thy sons may ne'er Be thus found wanting!

Then their doom is seal'd! Thou wilt not save thy children?

Hast thou cause, Wife of my youth! to deem it lies within The bounds of possible things, that I should link My name to that word—traitor?—They that sleep On their proud battle-fields, thy sires and mine, Died not for this!

Oh, cold and hard of heart! Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy soul Thus lightly from all human bonds can free Its haughty flight!—Men! men! too much is yours Of vantage; ye, that with a sound, a breath,