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THY PORTRAIT.
Where art thou? do the soft skies beam
With looks of love upon thee now?
Or where our starry banners stream
In many a fold above thy brow,
Where flashing from their scabbards gleam
A thousand weapons, standest thou?

I know thee, wheresoe'er thou art,
By the calm brow and truthful eye,
Which speak the purpose of thy heart
To bear right on unshrinkingly,
And nobly act thy destined part,
Although the mandate be to die!

Go onward, then! 'twere wrong in me
To wish to turn thy steps aside;
Too strong the love I bear to thee—
Oh, is it all unmixed with pride,—
To deem thy heart will ever be
To other than brave deeds allied?

Onward! although thy chosen place
Should in the front of battle be;
Though death should stare thee in the face,
Thou wilt lead on unfalteringly:
Upon this tranquil brow I trace
No shrinking of the soul in thee.