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There—where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone! There—where thy shadow to thy people shone !

Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire :
Thyself-none living see and not expire!


Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear !
Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear:

How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod!

How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God!

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Since our Country, our God-Oh, my Sire!
Demand that thy Daughter expire ;
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow-

Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now!


And the voice of my mourning is o’er,

And the mountains behold me no more :

If the hand that I love lay me low,

There cannot be pain in the blow!


And of this, oh, my Father! be sure

That the blood of thy child is as pure

As the blessing I beg ere it flow,
And the last thought that soothes me below.


Though the virgins of Salem lament,
Be the judge and the hero unbent !
I have won the great battle for thee,
And my Father and Country are free!




When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd,

When the voice that thou lovest is hush’d,

Let my memory still be thy pride,
And forget not I smiled as I died !

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On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;

But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year ;

And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom :

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