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     And their standards of infamous omen
Shall flaunt o'er the heads of our foemen,
     For each wreck and foul stain which their fury hath left
On the graves of my ancestors, ravaged and cleft,
     That the corpse of some craven marauder
Shall gorge the wild birds of our border!”


He spoke! and his eyes that were bright'ning
     With the glare of his heart's lurid lightning,
Flashed fierce as he strode ‘round the fragments of tombs
     Throa the quick-shifting gleams and the desolate glooms,
To the worn temple porch, where in silence
     He wrote his swift words of defiance,
And affixed them thereon, with the letters of flame
     Shining clear o'er the sign of his terrible name,
That the ruffianly ghouls who peruse them
     May know what dark vengeance pursues them!


As he turned him to go throa the wildwood,
     That echoed the sports of his childhood,
It seemed to the scout that dread voices of yore
     Were blent with the night winds that moaned by the shore,--
That the heroes of Eld hovered o'er him,--
     And this the stern message they bore him:
“No rest to thine arm, brain or valor be given,
     Till the hordes of the outlaw and alien are driven
By the keen sword of ruin and slaughter,
     To their ships on the gore-crimsoned water.”

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