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The rites are closed. Now, valiant men, depart, Each to his place—I may not say, of rest; Your faithful vigils for your sons may win What must not be your own. Ye are as those Who sow, in peril and in care, the seed Of the fair tree, beneath whose stately shade They may not sit. But bless'd be they who toil For after-days!—All high and holy thoughts Be with you, warriors, thro' the lingering hours Of the night-watch!

Aye, father! we have need Of high and holy thoughts, wherewith to fence Our hearts against despair. Yet have I been From youth a son of war. The stars have look'd A thousand times upon my couch of heath, Spread midst the wild sierras, by some stream