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—Ay, scorn me not! 'twas for his life—I knelt E'en at the viceroy's feet, and he put on That heartless laugh of cold malignity We know so well, and spurn'd me.— But the stain Of shame like this, takes blood to wash it off, And thus it shall be cancell'd!—Call on me, When the stern moment of revenge is nigh.

I call upon thee now! The land's high soul Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature's hues To deeper life before it. In his chains, The peasant dreams of freedom!—ay, 'tis thus Oppression fans th' imperishable flame With most unconscious hands.—No praise be her's For what she blindly works!—When slavery's cup O'erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant To dull our senses, thro' each burning vein Pours fever, lending a delirious strength To burst man's fetters—and they shall be burst! I have hoped, when hope seemed frenzy; but a power Abides in human will, when bent with strong Unswerving energy on one great aim, To make and rule its fortunes!—I have been A wanderer in the fulness of my years, A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas, Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands, To aid our holy cause. And aid is near: But we must give the signal. Now, before The majesty of yon pure heaven, whose eye Is on our hearts, whose righteous arm befriends