George Barlow Poems

When Hate’s black standard is at length unfurled
And stored-up rancours smite thee,—when from France
Springs Waterloo’s for ever poisoned lance
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Just as the hay-fields on the cliff-top draw
Seafarers---yea, two miles away from land!
Bringing sweet thoughts of many a leafy strand,
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OH where the immortal and the mortal meet
In union than of wind and wave more sweet,
Meet me, O God—
Where Thou hast trod
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