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130 H. C. HARWOOD
Though scattered wider yet our youth
On every sea and continent. There shall come bitter with the truth
A fraction of the sons you sent.
When slowly with averted head, Some darkly, some with halting feet,
And bowed with mourning for the dead We walk the cheering, fluttering street,
A music terrible, austere
Shall rise from our returning ranks To change your merriment to fear,
And slay upon your lips your thanks ;
And on the brooding weary brows Of stronger sons, close enemies.
Are writ the ruin of your house And swift usurping dynasties.
— H. C. Harwood.
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