Classic Poem

Son of a martyred race, that long
Has poured its sorrow into song,
And taught the world that grief is less
When voiced by Music's loveliness:
How shall its newer anguish be
Interpreted, if not by thee?

In whose heart dearer doth abide
Thy land's lost century of pride
Since triple tyrants tore in three
That nation of antiquity —
But could not lock with prison keys
The freeman's sacred memories?

Now, when thy soil lies wrecked and rent,
By cruel waves of warfare spent,
Till Famine counts so many slain
It lookSon Slaughter with disdain,
However others grieve, thou show'st
The noble spirit suffers most.

Master, with whom the world doth sway
Like meadow with the wind at play,
May Heaven send thee, at this hour,
Such access of supernal power
That every note beneath thy hand
Shall plead for thy distracted land.