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[355] The blood of Vane,
     His prison pain
Who traced the path the Pilgrim trod,
     And hers whose faith
Drew strength from death,
     And prayed her Russell up to God!

Our hearts grow cold,
     We lightly hold
A right which brave men died to gain;
     The stake, the cord,
The axe, the sword,
     Grim nurses at its birth of pain.

The shadow rend,
     And o'er us bend,
O martyrs, with your crowns and palms;
     Breathe through these throngs
Your battle songs,
     Your scaffold prayers, and dungeon psalms!

Look from the sky,
     Like God's great eye,
Thou solemn moon, with searching beam,
     Till in the sight
Of thy pure light
     Our mean self-seekings meaner seem.

Shame from our hearts
     Unworthy arts,
The fraud designed, the purpose dark;

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