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The slaves, the stream who turned, were butchered thrown,
That, so his grave eternally unknown,
No mortal on the Scourge of God might tread.
Thou, nobler hero, nobler grave hast won,
In Wagner's trench, beneath brave freemen hid,
By Vandals on thee piled — a pyramid,
That to all coming time shall make thee known.
In death, as life, round thee their guard they keep,
And, when next time they hear the trumpet's sound,
Will they, with thee, on heaven's parapet leap;--
The four-and-twenty elders on the ground
Their crowns before thy lowly comrades lay,
While “Come up higher, Friend I” thou hear'st God say.
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