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Still green, along our sunny shore The flowering myrtle waves, As when its fragrant boughs of yore Were offer'd on the graves; The graves, wherein our mighty men Had rest, unviolated then.

Still green it waves! as when the hearth Was sacred through the land; And fearless was the banquet's mirth, And free the minstrel's hand; And guests, with shining myrtle crown'd, Sent the wreath'd lyre and wine-cup round.

Still green! as when on holy ground The tyrant's blood was pour'd: —Forget ye not what garlands bound The young deliverer's sword! —Though earth may shrowd Harmodius now, We still have sword and myrtle-bough!