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Still, by our sun-bright deep, With all the fame that fiery lay Threw round them, in its rushing way, The sons of battle sleep.

And kings their turf have crown'd! And pilgrims o'er the foaming wave Brought garlands there: so rest the brave, Who thus their bard have found!

A voice from Scio's isle, A voice as deep hath risen again! As far shall peal its thrilling strain, Where'er our sun may smile!

Let not its tones expire! Such power to waken earth and heaven, And might and vengeance ne'er was given To mortal song or lyre!

Know ye not whence it comes? —From ruin'd hearths, from burning fanes, From kindred blood on yon red plains, From desolated homes!