An Ode Pronounced Before the Inhabitants of Boston, September the Seventeenth, 1830,

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    O many a time it hath been told, The story of those men of old: For this fair poetry hath wreathed Her sweetest, purest flower; For this proud eloquence hath breathed His strain of loftiest power; Devotion, too, hath lingered round Each spot of consecrated ground, And hill and valley blessed; There, where our banished Fathers strayed, There, where they loved and wept and prayed, There, where their ashes rest.
    XI.
    And never may they rest unsung, While liberty can find a tongue. Twine
..., Gratitude, a wreath for them, More deathless than the diadem, Who to life's noblest end, Gave up life's noblest powers, And bade the legacy descend, Down, down to us and ours.
    XII.
    By centuries now the glorious hour we mark, When to these shores they steered their shattered bark; And still, as other centuries melt away, Shall other ages come to keep the day. When we are dust, who gather round this spot, Our joys, our griefs, our very names forgot, Here shall the dwellers of the land be seen, To keep the memory of the Pilgrims green.


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