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Right in the van, On the red ramparts slippery swell, With heart that beat a charge, he fell, Foeward, as fits a man; But the high soul burns on to light men's feet Where death for noble ends makes dying sweet; His life her crescent's span Orbs full with share in their undarkening days Who ever climbed the battailous steeps of praise Since valor's praise began.
"It's wholesome doctrine." And he wiped his eyes with what seemed his sole remnant of linen. "Dear, dear," sighed Searle, "I've made you cry! Well, we speak as from man to man. I should be glad to think you had felt for a moment the side-light of that great undarkening of the spirit which precedes which precedes the grand illumination of death." Mr.
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