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He has no enemy, you say; My friend your boast is poor, He who hath mingled in the fray Of duty that the brave endure Must have made foes. If he has none Small is the work that he has done. He has hit no traitor on the hip; Has cast no cup from perjured lip; Has never turned the wrong to right; Has been a coward in the fight.

Singing and rejoicing, As aye since time began, The dying earth's last poet Shall be the earth's last man.