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Here thousands might have slept, whose name Had been to thee a spell, To light thy flashing eyes with flame,— To bid thy young heart swell.

Here might have been a warrior's rest, Some chief who bravely bled, With waving banner, sculptured crest, And laurel on his head.

That laurel must have had its blood, That blood have caused its tear,— Look on the lovely solitude— What! wish for warfare here!