Page:Writings of Oscar Wilde - Volume 01.djvu/71

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Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead  To vex their solemn slumber so: Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,  Up the steep road must England go,
Yet when this fiery web is spun,  Her watchmen shall decry from far The young Republic like a sun  Rise from these crimson seas of war.
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