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     For what makes manhood dear.
Tell us not of Plantagenets,
     Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin bloods crawl
Down from some victor in a border brawl!
     How poor their outworn coronets,
Matched with one leaf of that plain civic wreath
     Our brave for honor's blazon shall bequeath,
Through whose desert a rescued Nation sets
     Her heel on treason, and the trumpet hears
Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen ears
     With vain resentments and more vain regrets!


Not in anger, not in pride,
     Pure from passion's mixture rude
Ever to base earth allied,
     But with far-heard gratitude,
Still with heart and voice renewed,
     To heroes living and dear martyrs dead,
The strain should close that consecrates our brave.
     Lift the heart and lift the head!
Lofty be its mood and grave,
     Not without a martial ring,
Not without a prouder tread
     And a peal of exultation:
Little right has he to sing
     Through whose heart in such an hour
Beats no march of conscious power,
     Sweeps no tumult of elation!
'T is no Man we celebrate,
     By his country's victories great,
A hero half, and half the whim of Fate,
     But the pith and marrow of a Nation
Drawing force from all her men,
     Highest, humblest, weakest, all,
For her day of need, and then
     Pulsing it again through them,
Till the basest can no longer cower,
     Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall,

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