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WELLINGTON.
The conqueror of a thousand fields!
Not as in olden time,
When carnage urged its crimson path,
And conquest was a crime—
But in a universal war
For every right sublime.
The laurel that he wears should have
In English hearts its birth;
His victories kept inviolate
Our island’s sacred earth;
They were the glorious ransom given
For every English hearth.
