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To them the nobler heights of fame belong;
Each heart admires, each lip is warm with praise;
Each hand would weave the victor-chieftain's bays.
Warrior, this praise is thine! but there will be
A purer, holier, dearer mead for thee:
Thine was the arm that stopp'd the destin'd blow,
And spar'd the triumph of a fallen foe.
The wreath that valour's deeds must gain is bright—
But its chief lustre flows from mercy's light.
