X.
O many a time it hath been told,
The story of those men of old:
For this fair poetry hath wreathed
Her sweetest, purest flower;
For this proud eloquence hath breathed
His strain of loftiest power;
Devotion, too, hath lingered round
Each spot of consecrated ground,
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And hill and valley blessed;
There, where our banished Fathers strayed,
There, where they loved and wept and prayed,
There, where their ashes rest.