Ride through the land, Vigilantes, ride!
From this bound of the East where the inrolling tide
With more than the red of the sunrise is dyed,
As crimson the foam is borne to our strand!
Ride!
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If they murmur, adream, 'Our peace, we beseech— The peoples at war—they speak not our speech! ' Ye will say, 'If ye sleep, then sleep—to your shame! very fine poem. tony