Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/63

ALICE OF MONMOUTH VIII

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each mother to her son,

Ere an ancient field was won:

Our country is mother of us all;

In her you breathe, and move, and are.

In peace, for her to live—in war.

For her to die—is, gloriously,

A patriot to live and die!"

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The times are now as grand as then

With dauntless women, earnest men;

For thus the mothers whom we know

Bade their sons to battle go;

And, with a smile, the loyal North

Sent her million freemen forth.

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Than we, who dwell by the open sea,

Tilling the lands our fathers won

In battle on the Monmouth Plains?

Ah! a memory remains,

Telling us what they have done,

Teaching us what we should do.

Let us send our rightful share,—

Hard-handed yeomen, horsemen rare,

A hundred riders fleet and true."

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A hundred horsemen, led by Hugh:

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