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Mothers and <*>isters, sitting by the quiet twilight hearth,
We are not lonely, though alone,
Each patriot soldier is our own,
Our prayers arise beside the silent hearth,
To bless their worth.

Is high ambition dead, and every fresh desire of praise?
With him who makes a patriot's choice,
With him shall all the hours rejoice,
He shall be rocked by breezes joy can raise
On beds of praise!

In ancient days, the nobly brave 'twas said should win the fair.
Now, tears shall bathe victorious feet,
Falling, as fell the ointment sweet:
To wipe the se wounds, the noblest of the fair
Unbinds her hair.

Is human life so vast a thing, subject to no decay?
Do we forget the dying leaves?
Are we unlike the garnered sheaves?
That we can dare to let God's right decay,
In life's short day!

Go! thou shalt follow Honor, Mercy calling thee to go!
The lamp of Glory shall not pale,
The holiest love shall never fail,
To light the way thy blessed feet may go
With Victory's glow!

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