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by Ada A. Mosher

Dead, the last scion of the Rose's race,
The generation of the Summer, dead!
And where its watch-fires blazed behold instead
The Invader's glorious camps usurp the place.

Strange, daring colors with wild foreign grace,
Tawn India's yellow and Arabia's red
Blend into brown of Afric overhead
And swathe their towering tents from brow to base.

We look to sudden meet them face to face,
These stranger-warriors who possess the land.
We hear the Wind-hounds baying to the chase,
And streaming from the hills on every hand
In wild barbaric beauty do we trace
Their multi-colored signals of command.

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