Текст оригинала на английском языке
We could not turn from that colossal foe, The morning shadow of whose hideous head Darkened the furthest West, and who did throw His evening shade on Ind. The polar bow Behind him flamed and paled, and through the red Uncertain dark his vasty shape did grow Upon the sleepless nations. Lay him low! Aye, low as for our priceless English dead We lie and groan to-day in England! Oh, My God! I think Thou hast not finished This Thy fair world, where, triumph Ill or Good, We still must weep; where or to lose or gain Is woe; where Pain is medicined by Pain, And Blood can only be washed out by Blood.
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