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To Persecuted Foreigners

Fly from the soil whose desolating creed,
Outraging faith, makes human victims bleed,
Welcome! where every Muse has reared a shrine,
The respect of wild Freedom to refine.

Upon OUR Chieftain's brow no crown appears;
No gems are mingled with his silver hairs.
Enough that Laurels bloom amid its snows,
Enriched with these, the sage all else foregoes.

If thou art one of that oppressed race,
Whose name's a proverb, and whose lot's disgrace,
Brave the Atlantic—Hope's broad anchor weigh,
A Western Sun will gild your future day.

Zeal is not blind in this our temp'rate soil;
She has no scourge to make the soul recoil.
Her darkness vanished when our stars did flash;
Her red arm, grasped by Reason, dropt the lash.

Our Union, Liberty and Peace imparts,
Stampt on our standards, graven on our hearts;
The first, from crush'd Ambition's ruin rose,
The last, on Victory's field spontaneous grows.

Rise, then, elastic from Oppression's tread,
Come and repose on Plenty's flowery bed.
Oh! not as Strangers shall welcome be,
Come to the homes and bosoms of the free.
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