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Borne upon the Spartan shield
     Home returned that brave array
From the blood-stained battle-field
     They might neither win nor yield;
That is all, and here are they.

That is all, The soft sky bends
     O'er them, lapped in earth away;
Her benignest influence lends,
     Dews and rains and radiance sends
Down upon them, night and day.

Over them the Springtide weaves
     All the verdure of her May:
Past them drift the sombre leaves
     When the heart of Autumn grieves
O'er their slumbers.—What care they?

What care they, who failed to win
     Guerdon of that splendid day—
Freedom's day—they saw begin,
     But that, 'mid the battle's din,
Faded in eclipse away?

All is gone for them. They gave
     All for naught. It was their way
Where they loved. They died to save
     What was lost. The fight was brave.
That is all; and here are they.

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