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Since our Country, our God-Oh, my Sire!
Demand that thy Daughter expire;
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now!
And the voice of my mourning is o'er,
And the mountains behold me no more :
If the hand that I love lay me low,
There cannot be pain in the blow!
And of this, oh, my Father! be sure
That the blood of thy child is as pure
As the blessing I beg ere it flow,
Though the virgins of Salem lament,
I have won the great battle for thee,
my Father and Country are free!
When this blood of thy giving hath gushed,
When the voice that thou lovest is hushed,
Let my memory still be thy pride,
And forget not I smiled as I died !
OH! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S
Oh! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed thee dead!
Away; we know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress :
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less ?
And thou—who tell’st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan,
eyes are wet.