V.
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looms the laurel which belongsTo the valiant chief who fights;I see the wreath, I hear the songsLauding the Eternal Rights,Victors over daily wrongs:Awful victors, they misguideWhom they will destroy,And their coming triumph hideIn our downfall, or our joy:They reach no term, they never sleep,In equal strength through space abide;Though, feigning dwarfs, they crouch and creep,The strong they slay, the swift outstride:Fate's grass grows rank in valley clods,And rankly on the castled steep,--Speak it firmly, these are gods,All are ghosts beside.
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