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Their lot with ours to rove the world about;

And some are wilder comrades, sworn to. seek

If any golden harbor be for men

In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of Doubt.

TO THE REV. W. H. BROOKFIELD.

BROOKS, for they call'd you so that knew you best,

Old Brooks, who loved so well to mouth, my rhymes,

Their headlong passes, but his footstep fails,

And red with blood the Crescent reelfrom fight

Before their dauntless hundreds, in prone fight

By thousands down the crags and thro' the vales.

O smallest among peoples! rough rockthrone

Of Freedom! warriors beating back the

swarm

Of Turkish Islam for five hundred years, Great Tsernogora! never since thine own Black ridges drew the cloud and brake the storm

How oft we two have heard St. Mary's Has breathed a race of mightier moun

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From wall to dike he stept, he stood, nor join'd

The Achæans-honoring his wise mother's word

There standing, shouted, and Pallas far away

Call'd; and a boundless panic shook the foe.

For like the clear voice when a trumpet shrills,

Blown by the fierce beleaguerers of a town,

So rang the clear voice of Æakidês; And when the brazen cry of Æakides Was heard among the Trojans, all their hearts

Were troubled, and the full-maned horses whirl'd

The chariots backward, knowing griefs at hand;

And sheer-astounded were the chariot

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.

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