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Ye spirits of the free!
Can ye forever see
Your brother man,
A yok'd and tortur'd slave,
Scourg'd to an early grave,
And raise no hand to save,
E'en when you can?

No! at the battle-cry,
A host, prepar'd to die,
Shall arm for fight;
But not with martial steel,
Grasp'd with a murd'rous zeal;
Their foes no arms shall feel
But love and light.