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The Land we from our Fathers had in trust, And to our Children will transmit, or die:This is our maxim, this our piety;And God and Nature say that it is just. That which we would perform in arms—we must! We read the dictate in the Infant's eye; In the Wife's smile; and in the placid sky;And, at our feet, amid the silent dust Of them that were before us.—Sing aloud Old Songs, the precious music of the heart!Give, Herds and Flocks! your voices to the wind!While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd, With weapons in the fearless hand, to assert Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind.
Alas! what boots the long, laborious quest
And is it among rude untutored Dales,
O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain,
FINAL SUBMISSION OF THE TYROLESE.
It was a moral end for which they fought;
Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame,
Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim,
A resolution, or enlivening thought?
Nor hath that moral good been vainly sought;
For in their magnanimity and fame
Powers have they left—an impulse—and a claim
Which neither can be overturned nor bought.
Sleep, Warriors, sleep! among your hills repose!
We know that ye, beneath the stern controul
Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul.
And when, impatient of her guilt and woes
Europe breaks forth; then, Shepherds! shall ye rise
For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies.