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'Tis a little time since the lance and spear, And the clamor of war and death were here; Our siesta the shout of the murderer broke, And we struggled to rend a tyrant's yoke, Till our midnight slumbers were pale with fears, And the fairest cheeks bore a mourner's tears.

But now on the couch of its mother's breast, The infant sleeps long in its dream of rest, And the lover beneath the evening star, Woos the young maid with his light guitar; These are the blessings that wait the free, And stranger! this flower is our gift to thee.