9 Best American Revolution Poems


    About the author

    Edward St. Germain.
    Edward St. Germain

    Edward A. St. Germain created AmericanRevolution.org in 1996. He was an avid historian with a keen interest in the Revolutionary War and American culture and society in the 18th century. On this website, he created and collated a huge collection of articles, images, and other media pertaining to the American Revolution. Edward was also a Vietnam veteran, and his investigative skills led to a career as a private detective in later life.


      1. Liberty Tree by Thomas Paine (1775)

      This poem by Founding Father Thomas Paine celebrates the Liberty Tree, an elm tree that stood in Boston.

      The Liberty Tree was used as a starting point for Patriot meetings and protests before the Revolutionary War began, and became a symbol of the resistance effort.

      In a chariot of light, from the regions of the day,
      The Goddess of Liberty came,
      Ten thousand celestials directed her way,
      And hither conducted the dame.
      A fair budding branch from the gardens above,
      Where millions with millions agree,
      She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love,
      And the plant she named Liberty Tree.

      The celestial exotic stuck deep in the ground,
      Like a native it flourished and bore;
      The fame of its fruit drew the nations around,
      To seek out this peaceable shore.
      Unmindful of names or distinctions they came,
      For freemen like brothers agree;
      With one spirit endued, they one friendship pursued,
      And their temple was Liberty Tree.

      Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old,
      Their bread in contentment they ate,
      Unvexed with the troubles of silver or gold,
      The cares of the grand and the great.
      With timber and tar they Old England supplied,
      And supported her power on the sea;
      Her battles they fought, without getting a groat,
      For the honor of Liberty Tree.

      But hear, O ye swains (’tis a tale most profane),
      How all the tyrannical powers,
      Kings, Commons and Lords, are uniting amain
      To cut down this guardian of ours.
      From the East to the West blow the trumpet to arms,
      Thro’ the land let the sound of it flee;
      Let the far and the near all unite with a cheer,
      In defense of our Liberty Tree.

      2. The American Soldier by Philip Freneau (1790)

      Freneau tells the story of a soldier who fought in the Battle of Saratoga, and fell into poverty after the war was won – lamenting the lack of support available to veterans.

      A Picture from the Life
      To serve with love,
      And shed your blood,
      Approved may be above,
      But here below
      (Example shew,)
      ‘Tis dangerous to be good.

      – Lord Oxford

      Deep in a vale, a stranger now to arms,
      Too poor to shine in courts, too proud to beg,
      He, who once warred on Saratoga’s plains,
      Sits musing o’er his scars, and wooden leg.

      Remembering still the toil of former days,
      To other hands he sees his earnings paid;–
      They share the due reward—he feeds on praise.
      Lost in the abyss of want, misfortune’s shade.

      Far, far from domes where splendid tapers glare,
      ‘Tis his from dear bought peace no wealth to win,
      Removed alike from courtly cringing ‘squires,
      The great-man’s Levee, and the proud man’s grin.

      Sold are those arms which once on Britons blazed,
      When, flushed with conquest, to the charge they came;
      That power repelled, and Freedom’s fabrick raised,
      She leaves her soldier—famine and a name!

      3. The Battle of the Kegs by Francis Hopkinson (1791)

      The Battle of the Kegs provides a humorous recount of an incident that occurred on January 8, 1778, on the Delaware River.

      American forces filled kegs with gunpowder and sent them down the river towards the British, hoping they would act as underwater mines, sinking British ships.

      The kegs were not effective, but prompted a panicked response from the British, who spent the entire day shooting into the water to blow up any and all pieces of debris they could spot.

      Gallants attend, and hear a friend
      Trill forth harmonious ditty;
      Strange things I’ll tell, which late befel
      In Philadelphia city.

      ‘Twas early day, as Poets say,
      Just when the sun was rising;
      A soldier stood on a log of wood
      And saw a sight surprising.

      As in a maze he stood to gaze,
      The truth can’t be deny’d, Sir;
      He spy’d a score of kegs, or more,
      Come floating down the tide, Sir.

      A sailor too, in jerkin blue,
      This strange appearance viewing,
      First damn’d his eyes in great surprize,
      Then said — “Some mischief’s brewing:

      “These kegs now hold the rebels bold
      Pack’d up like pickl’d herring,
      And they’re come down t’attack the town
      In this new way of ferrying.”

      The soldier flew, the sailor too,
      And scar’d almost to death, Sir,
      Wore out their shoes to spread the news,
      And ran ’til out of breath, Sir.

      Now up and down throughout the town
      Most frantic scenes were acted;
      And some ran here and others there,
      Like men almost distracted.

      Some fire cry’d, which some deny’d,
      But said the earth had quaked;
      And girls and boys, with hideous noise,
      Ran thro’ the streets half naked.

      Sir William he, snug as a flea,
      Lay all this time a snoring;
      Nor dreamt of harm, as he lay warm
      In bed with Mrs. Loring .

      Now in a fright he starts upright,
      Awak’d by such a clatter;
      First rubs his eyes, then boldly cries,
      “For God’s sake, what’s the matter?”

      At his bed side he then espy’d
      Sir Erskine at command, Sir;
      Upon one foot he had one boot
      And t’other in his hand, Sir.

      “Arise, arise, ” Sir Erskine cries,
      “The rebels — more’s the pity!
      Without a boat, are all afloat
      And rang’d before the city.

      “The motley crew, in vessels new,
      With Satan for their guide, Sir,
      Pack’d up in bags, and wooden kegs,
      Come driving down the tide, Sir.

      “Therefore prepare for bloody war,
      These kegs must all be routed,
      Or surely we despis’d shall be,
      And British valour doubted.”

      The royal band now ready stand,
      All rang’d in dread array, Sir,
      On every slip, in every ship,
      For to begin the fray, Sir.

      The cannons roar from shore to shore,
      The small arms make a rattle;
      Since wars began I’m sure no man
      E’er saw so strange a battle.

      The rebel dales — the rebel vales,
      With rebel trees surrounded;
      The distant woods, the hills and floods,
      With rebel echoes sounded.

      The fish below swam to and fro,
      Attack’d from ev’ry quarter;
      Why sure, thought they, the De’il’s to pay
      ‘Mong folks above the water.

      The kegs, ’tis said, tho’ strongly made
      Of rebel staves and hoops, Sir,
      Could not oppose their pow’rful foes,
      The conqu’ring British troops, Sir.

      From morn to night these men of might
      Display’d amazing courage;
      And when the sun was fairly down,
      Retir’d to sup their porridge.

      One hundred men, with each a pen
      Or more, upon my word, Sir,
      It is most true, would be too few
      Their valour to record, Sir.

      Such feats did they perform that day
      Against these wicked kegs, Sir,
      That years to come, if they get home ,
      They’ll make their boasts and brag, Sir.

      4. Paul Revere’s Ride by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1861)

      This poem celebrates Paul Revere’s midnight ride on April 18-19, 1775, when he famously rode from Boston to Lexington, along with other Patriots, to warn others about an oncoming British advance.

      Listen, my children, and you shall hear
      Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
      On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
      Hardly a man is now alive
      Who remembers that famous day and year.

      He said to his friend, “If the British march
      By land or sea from the town to-night,
      Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
      Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,—
      One if by land, and two if by sea;
      And I on the opposite shore will be,
      Ready to ride and spread the alarm
      Through every Middlesex village and farm,
      For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”

      Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar
      Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
      Just as the moon rose over the bay,
      Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
      The Somerset, British man-of-war:
      A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
      Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
      And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
      By its own reflection in the tide.

      Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
      Wanders and watches with eager ears,
      Till in the silence around him he hears
      The muster of men at the barrack door,
      The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
      And the measured tread of the grenadiers
      Marching down to their boats on the shore.

      Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
      Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
      To the belfry-chamber overhead,
      And startled the pigeons from their perch
      On the sombre rafters, that round him made
      Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
      By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
      To the highest window in the wall,
      Where he paused to listen and look down
      A moment on the roofs of the town,
      And the moonlight flowing over all.

      Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
      In their night-encampment on the hill,
      Wrapped in silence so deep and still
      That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
      The watchful night-wind, as it went
      Creeping along from tent to tent,
      And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
      A moment only he feels the spell
      Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
      Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
      For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
      On a shadowy something far away,
      Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
      A line of black, that bends and floats
      On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

      Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
      Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
      On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
      Now he patted his horse’s side,
      Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
      Then impetuous stamped the earth,
      And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
      But mostly he watched with eager search
      The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
      As it rose above the graves on the hill,
      Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
      And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,
      A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
      He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
      But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
      A second lamp in the belfry burns!

      A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
      A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
      And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
      Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
      That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
      The fate of a nation was riding that night;
      And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
      Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

      He has left the village and mounted the steep,
      And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
      Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
      And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
      Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
      Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

      It was twelve by the village clock
      When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
      He heard the crowing of the cock,
      And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
      And felt the damp of the river-fog,
      That rises when the sun goes down.

      It was one by the village clock,
      When he galloped into Lexington.
      He saw the gilded weathercock
      Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
      And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
      Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
      As if they already stood aghast
      At the bloody work they would look upon.

      It was two by the village clock,
      When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
      He heard the bleating of the flock,
      And the twitter of birds among the trees,
      And felt the breath of the morning breeze
      Blowing over the meadows brown.
      And one was safe and asleep in his bed
      Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
      Who that day would be lying dead,
      Pierced by a British musket-ball.

      You know the rest. In the books you have read,
      How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
      How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
      From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
      Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
      Then crossing the fields to emerge again
      Under the trees at the turn of the road,
      And only pausing to fire and load.

      So through the night rode Paul Revere;
      And so through the night went his cry of alarm
      To every Middlesex village and farm,—
      A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
      A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
      And a word that shall echo forevermore!
      For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
      Through all our history, to the last,
      In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
      The people will waken and listen to hear
      The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
      And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

      5. To His Excellency General Washington by Phillis Wheatley (1776)

      Phillis Wheatley arrived in America from West Africa as a slave of the Wheatley family. While enslaved, she began writing poetry, and is the nation’s first famous African-American poet.

      In 1776, she wrote this poem praising George Washington’s leadership during the Revolutionary War.

      Celestial choir! enthron’d in realms of light,
      Columbia’s scenes of glorious toils I write.
      While freedom’s cause her anxious breast alarms,
      She flashes dreadful in refulgent arms.
      See mother earth her offspring’s fate bemoan,
      And nations gaze at scenes before unknown!
      See the bright beams of heaven’s revolving light
      Involved in sorrows and the veil of night!

      The Goddess comes, she moves divinely fair,
      Olive and laurel binds Her golden hair:
      Wherever shines this native of the skies,
      Unnumber’d charms and recent graces rise.

      Muse! Bow propitious while my pen relates
      How pour her armies through a thousand gates,
      As when Eolus heaven’s fair face deforms,
      Enwrapp’d in tempest and a night of storms;
      Astonish’d ocean feels the wild uproar,
      The refluent surges beat the sounding shore;
      Or think as leaves in Autumn’s golden reign,
      Such, and so many, moves the warrior’s train.
      In bright array they seek the work of war,
      Where high unfurl’d the ensign waves in air.
      Shall I to Washington their praise recite?
      Enough thou know’st them in the fields of fight.
      Thee, first in peace and honors—we demand
      The grace and glory of thy martial band.
      Fam’d for thy valour, for thy virtues more,
      Hear every tongue thy guardian aid implore!

      One century scarce perform’d its destined round,
      When Gallic powers Columbia’s fury found;
      And so may you, whoever dares disgrace
      The land of freedom’s heaven-defended race!
      Fix’d are the eyes of nations on the scales,
      For in their hopes Columbia’s arm prevails.
      Anon Britannia droops the pensive head,
      While round increase the rising hills of dead.
      Ah! Cruel blindness to Columbia’s state!
      Lament thy thirst of boundless power too late.

      Proceed, great chief, with virtue on thy side,
      Thy ev’ry action let the Goddess guide.
      A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine,
      With gold unfading, WASHINGTON! Be thine.

      6. The Wild Honeysuckle by Philip Freneau (1786)

      A less literal take on the American Revolution, this poem uses the metaphor of a flower to illustrate the transformative nature of the war, as it gave birth to the United States.

      Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
      Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
      Untouch’d thy honey’d blossoms blow,
      Unseen thy little branches greet:
      No roving foot shall crush thee here,
      No busy hand provoke a tear.

      By Nature’s self in white array’d,
      She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
      And planted here the guardian shade,
      And sent soft waters murmuring by;
      Thus quietly thy summer goes,
      Thy days declining to repose.

      Smit with those charms, that must decay,
      I grieve to see thy future doom;
      They died—nor were those flowers more gay,
      (The flowers that did in Eden bloom)
      Unpitying frosts and Autumn’s power
      Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

      From morning suns and evening dews
      At first thy little being came:
      If nothing once, you nothing lose,
      For when you die you are the same;
      The space between is but an hour,
      The mere idea of a flower.

      7. Lexington by Oliver Wendell Holmes (unknown)

      Wendall Holmes reflects on the opening battle of the Revolutionary War, describing the grim reality of the conflict, contrasted with the beauty of the landscape on which the fighting occurred.

      Slowly the mist over the meadow was creeping,
      Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun,
      When from his couch, while his children were sleeping,
      Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.
      Waving her golden veil
      Over the silent dale,
      Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire;
      Hushed was his parting sigh,
      While from his noble eye
      Flashed the last sparkle of liberty’s fire.

      On the smooth green where the fresh leaf is springing
      Calmly the first-born of glory have met;
      Hark! the death-volley around them is ringing!
      Look! with their life-blood the young grass is wet
      Faint is the feeble breath,
      Murmuring low in death,
      “Tell to our sons how their fathers have died;”
      Nerveless the iron hand,
      Raised for its native land,
      Lies by the weapon that gleams at its side.

      Over the hillsides the wild knell is tolling,
      From their far hamlets the yeomanry come;
      As through the storm-clouds the thunder-burst rolling,
      Circles the beat of the mustering drum.
      Fast on the soldier’s path
      Darken the waves of wrath,
      Long have they gathered and loud shall they fall;
      Red glares the musket’s flash,
      Sharp rings the rifle’s crash,
      Blazing and clanging from thicket and wall.

      Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing,
      Never to shadow his cold brow again;
      Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing,
      Reeking and panting he droops on the rein;
      Pale is the lip of scorn,
      Voiceless the trumpet horn,
      Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high;
      Many a belted breast
      Low on the turf shall rest
      Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed by.

      Snow-girdled crags where the hoarse wind is raving,
      Rocks where the weary floods murmur and wail,
      Wilds where the fern by the furrow is waving,
      Reeled with the echoes that rode on the gale;
      Far as the tempest thrills
      Over the darkened hills,
      Far as the sunshine streams over the plain,
      Roused by the tyrant band,
      Woke all the mighty land,
      Girded for battle, from mountain to main.

      Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying!
      Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest,
      While o’er their ashes the starry fold flying
      Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest.
      Borne on her Northern pine,
      Long o’er the foaming brine
      Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun;
      Heaven keep her ever free,
      Wide as o’er land and sea
      Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won.

      8. The British Prison Ship by Philip Freneau

      Freneau describes what life was like during his time spent on a British prisoner of war ship in 1778, where he nearly died.
      This poem is long – only the first canto has been repeated here.
      OUR vessel now in all her pomp and pride,
      AURORA nam’d, departing out the tide▪
      ‘Twas thy deep stream, O Delaware▪ that bore
      This pile intended for Eustatia’s shore;
      Bound to those isles where endless summer reigns,
      Fair fruits, gay blossoms, and enameled plains;
      Where sloping lawns the roving swain delight,
      And the cool morn succeeds the breezy night;
      Where each glad day a heaven unclouded brings,
      And fragrant mountains teem with golden springs.
      From Cape-Henlopen, with soft southern gales,
      When morn emerg’d we spread our flowing sails; *
      Then East-south-east we plough’d the briny way,
      Close to the wind, departing from the bay.
      Hermes and Mars stood pensive on the strand,
      And Jove with pity saw us leave the land;
      To think what ills we wrethed mortals bear,
      How vain our labours and how vain our care.
      The gale increases as we plough the deep,
      Now scarce we see the distant mountains peep;
      At last they sink beneath the rolling wave,
      That seems their summits as they sink to lave.
      Gay Phoebus now the sacred source of light,
      Had pass’d the line of his meridian height;
      And westward hung,—absconded from our view,
      The shores were fled and every hill withdrew;
      When ever cautious of some neighb’ring foe,
      Aloft the captain bade a sailor go,
      To mark if from the mast’s aspiring height,
      Through all the round, a vessel came in sight.
      Soon did the seaman’s quick discerning eye,
      Far distant in the east a ship espy;
      Her lofty masts stood bending to the gale,
      Close to the wind was brac’d each shivering sail;
      Next from the deck we saw the approaching foe,
      Her spangled bottom seem’d in flames to glow;
      When to the winds she bow’d in dreadful haste,
      And her lee guns lay delug’d in the waste;
      At her top gallant that proud flag we saw,
      Which once aspir’d to give the nations law;
      But humbled now—with grief, regret and pain,—
      No longer holds the empire of the main.
      The frigate now had every sail unfurl’d,
      And rush’d tremendous o’er the wat’ry world;
      Fixt and resolv’d our ship to overtake,
      With toil immense she strove to gain our wake;
      Nor strove in vain,—the master gave command,
      We tack’d about and try’d to gain the land;
      As from the south the fresh’ning breezes rise,
      Swift from her foe alarm’d Aurora flies;
      With all her sails expanded to the wind,
      She fled the unequal force that chac’d behind;
      Along her decks dispos’d in close array,
      Each at its port, the grim artillery lay;
      Soon on the foe with brazen throat to roar,
      But small their size and narrow was their bore;
      Yet faithful they their destin’d stations keep,
      To guard the barque that bears them o’er the deep;
      Who now must bend to steer a wary course,
      And trust her swiftness rather than her force▪
      Still o’er the wave with foaming prow she flies,
      And steady winds from equinoctial skies;
      High in the air the starry streamer plays,
      And every sail its various tribute pays;
      To gain the land she bore the mighty blast,
      And now the wish’d for Cape appear’d at last;
      But the vext foe pursu’d us on our way,
      Like a starv’d lion, hungry for his prey;
      A frigate she and not unknown to fame,
      For soon we learnt her nation and her name;
      Iris it was— but Hancock once she bore,
      Fram’d and completed on new Albion’s shore;
      By Manly lost—the swiftest of the train,
      That fly with wings of canvas o’er the main.
      Toward the land by favouring breezes led,
      As Iris follow’d still Aurora fled;
      (So fierce Pelides, eager to destroy,
      Chac’d the proud trojan round the walls of Troy;)
      Swift o’er the waves indignant they pursue,
      As swiftly from their sangs Aurora flew;
      At last the cape with joy we gain’d once more,
      And here we strove to run the ship on shore.
      But sate deny’d the barren shore to gain,
      Denial sad and source of future pain!—
      For then the inspiring breezes ceas’d to blow,
      Lost were they all and calm the seas below;
      (The cape dispell’d the breezes from our sails,
      Though farther off a lively breeze prevails;)
      Our ship unable to pursue her way,
      Tumbling about, at her own guidance lay;
      But Iris still kept farther off to sea,
      And lay with dreadful aspect on our lee;
      Then up she luff’d and blaz’d her entrails dire,
      Bearing destruction, terror, death, and sire.
      Vext at our doom we prim’d a piece, and then
      Return’d the shot to shew them we were men.
      Dull night had now her dusky pinions spread,
      And ev’ry hope to ‘scape the foe was fled;
      Close to thy cape, Henlopen, though we press’d,
      We could not gain thy desart dreary breast;
      Tho’ ruin’d pines beshroud thy barren shore,
      With mounds of sand half hid or cover’d o’er;
      Tho’ howling winds disturb thy summit bare,
      Yet every hope and ev’ry wish was there.—
      In vain we sought to gain the joyless strand,
      Fate stood between and barr’d us from the land.
      All dead becalm’d and lifeless as we lay,
      The ebbing current forc’d us off to sea;
      While vengeful Iris thirsting for our blood,
      Flash’d her red lightnings o’er the trembling flood;
      At every flash a storm of ruin came,
      ‘Till now Aurora shook thro’ all her frame:
      Mad for revenge our breasts with fury glow,
      To wreak returns of vengeance on the foe▪
      Full at his hull our pointed guns we rais’d,
      His hull resounded as the cannon blaz’d;
      Through his fortopsail one a passage tore,
      His sides re-echo’d to the dreadful roar;
      Alternate sires dispell’d the shades of night—
      But how unequal was this daring fight!
      Our stoutest guns threw but a six-pound ball,—
      Twelve-pounders from the foe our sides did maul;
      And while no power to save him, intervenes
      A bullet struck our captain of marines;
      Fierce, though he bid defiance to the foe,
      He felt his death and ruin in the blow;
      Headlong he fell distracted with the wound,
      The deck bestain’d with heart-blood streaming round.
      Now frequent cries throughout the ship resound,
      And every bullet brought a different wound;
      ‘Twixt wind and water one assail’d the side,—
      Through this aperture rush’d the briny tide:
      ‘Twas then Aurora trembled for her crew,
      And bade thy shores O Delaware, adieu!—
      And must she yield to yon’ destructive ball,
      And must our colours to these ruffians fall?
      They fall—not waiting for another blow,
      We strike at once to the relentless foe;
      Convey’d to York, the Britons lodg’d us there,
      Safe in their dens of hunger and despair; *
      There, ships are prisons, void of masts or sails,
      In which describing, even description fails.—
      The remaining three cantos can be viewed here.

      9. The Divine Source of Liberty by Samuel Adams (unknown)

      In this poem, Founding Father Samuel Adams describes liberty as God’s divine gift.

      All temporal power is of God,
      And the magistratal, His institution, laud,
      To but advance creaturely happiness aubaud:
      Let us then affirm the Source of Liberty.

      Ever agreeable to the nature and will,
      Of the Supreme and Guardian of all yet still
      Employed for our rights and freedom’s thrill:
      Thus proves the only Source of Liberty.

      Though our civil joy is surely expressed
      Through hearth, and home, and church manifest,
      Yet this too shall be a nation’s true test:
      To acknowledge the divine Source of Liberty.

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