Hail to the land whereon we tread,
Our fondest boast!
The sepulchre of mighty dead,
The truest hearts that ever bled,
Who sleep on glory’s brightest bed,
A fearless host:
No slave is here;—our unchained feet
Walk freely, as the...
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The Stately Homes of England, |
From “Snow-Bound” |
From “Aurora Leigh” |
She stands, a thousand-wintered tree, |
NOR force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye |
The Breaking waves dashed high And the heavy night hung dark |