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For thine the Sabbath peace, my land;
And thine the guarded hearth;
And thine the dead, the noble band
That make thee holy earth.
Their voices meet me in thy breeze;
Their steps are on thy plains;
Their names, by old majestic trees,
Are whisper'd round thy fanes:
Their blood hath mingled with the tide
Of thine exulting sea;—
Oh, be it still a joy, a pride,
To live and die for thee!
