How Myriad Throngs—overcome—
The Soldiers will say!—
How many Brigades, nor Flags won—
On Revolution’s Day?
The ones that’d never Ascend the shining League—
Could not a meter explore—
And then, doth Descend the Purple fatigue;—
By and by, towards Pizarro’s Shore—
Which Bullets thou bearest—
Upon thy fateful brow?—
Had they Eyesight of thee, nearest—
They’d skip over th’ Angels, now!
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