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e warrior's grave, bids exercise awake, And health, the breeze of morning to inhale: 470 Meantime, remote from storms, the myrtle blooms Beneath my southern sash. The hurricane May rend the pines of snowy Labrador, The blasting whirlwinds of the desert sweep The Nubian wilderness--we fear them not; Nor yet, my country, do thy breezes bear, From citrons, or the blooming orange-grove, As in Rousillon's jasmine-bordered vales, Incense at eve. 480 But temperate airs are thine, England; and as thy climate, so thy sons Partake the temper of thine isle; not rude, Nor soft, voluptuous, nor effeminate; Sincere, indeed, and hardy, as becomes Those who can lift their look elate, and say, We strike for injured freedom; and yet mild, And gentle, when the voice of charity Pleads like a voice from heaven: and, thanks to GOD, The chain that fettered Afric's groaning race, 490 The murderous chain, that, link by link, dropped blood, Is severed; we have lost that foul reproach To all our virtuous boast! Humanity, England, is thine! not _that_ false substitute, That meretricious sadness, which, all sighs For lark or lambkin, yet can hear unmoved The bloodiest orgies of blood-boltered France; Thine is consistent, manly, rational, Nor needing the false glow of sentiment 500 To melt it into sympathy, but mild, And looking with a gentle eye on all; Thy manners open, social, yet refined, Are tempered with reflection; gaiety, In her long-lighted halls, may lead the dance, Or wake the sprightly chord; yet nature, truth, Still warm the ingenuous heart: there is a blush With those most gay, and lovely; and a tear With those most manly! Temperate Liberty 510 Hath yet the fairest altar on thy shores; Such, and so warm with patriot energy, As raised its arm when a false Stuart fled; Yet mingled with deep wisdom's cautious lore, That when it bade a Papal tyrant pause And tremble, held the undeviating reins On the fierce neck of headlong Anarchy. Thy Church, (nor here let zealot bigotry, Vaunting, condemn all
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