The song
they demanded in vain -- it lay still
In our souls
as the wind that died on the hill;
They called
for the harp -- but our blood they shall spill
Ere our
right hand shall teach them one tone of our skill.
All stringlessly
hung on the willow's sad tree,
As dead
as her dead leaf those mute harps must be;
Our hands
may be fetter'd -- our tears still are free,
For our
God and our glory -- and, Sion ! -- Oh, thee.
--George Gordon, Lord Byron CLICK
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