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Rising above them to the judgment-seat Shall call a burst of gather'd vengeance down, To sweep th' oppressor from us!—For thy wave Hath made his guilt run o'er!

'Tis all a dream! There is not one—no hand on earth could harm That fair boy's graceful head!—Why look you thus?

Christian! e'en yet thou hast a son!

E'en yet!

My father! take me from these fearful men! Wilt thou not save me, father?

Is the strength From mine arm shiver'd?—Garcias, follow me!

Whither, my chief?

Why, we can die as well On yonder plain,—aye, a spear's thrust will do The little that our misery doth require,