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In the high deeds and sufferings of the soul, Than in the circling heavens, with all their stars, Or the far-sounding deep, doth send abroad A spirit, which takes affliction for its mate, In the good cause, with solemn joy!—How long? —And who art thou, that, in the littleness Of thine own selfish purpose, would'st set bounds To the free current of all noble thought And generous action, bidding its bright waves Be stay'd, and flow no further?—But the Power Whose interdict is laid on seas and orbs, To chain them in from wandering, hath assign'd No limits unto that which man's high strength Shall, through its aid, achieve!

Oh! there are times, When all that hopeless courage can achieve But sheds a mournful beauty o'er the fate Of those who die in vain.

Who dies in vain Upon his country's war-fields, and within The shadow of her altars?—Feeble heart! I tell thee that the voice of noble blood,