Page:The Siege of Valencia.pdf/86

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They call'd them from the shades, The golden fruited shades, where minstrels tell How softer light th' immortal clime pervades, And music floats o'er meads of Asphodel.

Then fast the bright-red wine* Flow'd to their names who taught the world to die, And made the land's green turf a living shrine, Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.

So the rejoicing earth Took from her vines again the blood she gave, And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth From the free soil, thus hallow'd to the brave.

We have the battle-fields, The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky, We have the founts the purple vintage yields; -—When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty!