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Soldier Poets
The charlatan ascends the rock
Where prophets stood of yore;
The shallow cynic dons the garb
That Trust and Honour wore,
And viperous scorn stands sentinel
Beside Truth's half-shut door.
Say, Spirit, what this England needs.
Is it a common foe?
Must we through tears be led to smiles,
To happiness through woe?
Shall blood of slaughtered sons buy grace?
Then, England, let it flow.
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