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And thou, pale night-queen! here thy beams Are not as those the shepherd loves, Nor look they down on shining streams, By Naiads haunted, in their laurel groves:

Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep, In shadowy quiet, midst its vines; No temple gleaming from the steep, Midst the grey olives, or the mountain pines:

But o'er a dim and boundless waste, Thy rays, e'en like a tomb-lamp's, brood, Where man's departed steps are traced But by his dust, amidst the solitude.

And be it thus!—What slave shall tread O'er freedom's ancient battle-plains? Let deserts wrap the glorious dead, When their bright land sits weeping o'er her chains:

Here, where the Persian clarion rung, And where the Spartan sword flash'd high, And where the Pæan strains were sung, From year to year swell'd on by liberty!