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 “Rejoice o'er Israel's broken chain,
Gray mother of the mighty slain!
Rejoice! ‘it cried,’ he vanquisheth!
The strong in life is strong in death!
To him shall Zorah's daughters raise
Through coming years their hymns of praise,
And gray old men at evening tell
Of all he wrought for Israel.
And they who sing and they who hear
Alike shall hold thy memory dear,
And pour their blessings on thy head,
O mother of the mighty dead! “
It ceased; and though a sound I heard
As if great wings the still air stirred,
I only saw the barley sheaves
And hills half hid by olive leaves.
I bowed my face, in awe and fear,
On the dear child who slumbered near;
“With me, as with my only son,”
‘O God,’ I said, ‘Thy will be done!’
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