I.
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HE pulse of War, whose bloody heatsSane purposes insanely work,Now with fraternal frenzy beats,And binds the Christian to the Turk,And shrieking fifes and braggart flags,Through quiet England, teach our breathThe courage corporate that dragsThe coward to heroic death.Too late for song! Who henceforth sings,Must fledge his heavenly flight with moreSong-worthy and heroic thingsThan hasty, home-destroying war.While might and right are not agreed,And battle thus is yet to wage,So long let laurels be the meedOf soldier as of poet sage;But men expect the Tale of Love,And weary of the Tale of Hate;Lift me, O Muse, myself above,And let the world no longer wait!
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