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[59] For fame do I fight? Lord of hosts, does not he
     Who battles for right ever battle for Thee!
There are graves trodden level that love seeks in vain,
     Held in honor by angels: Alike in thy sight
The poorest who carves for the red stripes their stain,
     And the leader who falls in the van of the fight.

They arc coming — they come! Shifting sunbeams reveal
     Their way through the leaves by the glitter of steel;
They swarm to the light, through the tree-boles they swarm
     Out from the forest aisles, lofoy and large.
Our Colonel turns pale, drops his beckoning arms,
     But hark, boys, the order: “Fix bayonets — charge!”

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