When on the field where freedom bled,
I press the ashes of the brave,
Marvelling that man should ever dread
Thus to wipo out the name of slave;
No deep-drawn sigh escapes my breast —
No woman's drops my eyes distain,
I weep not gallant hearts at rest,
I but deplore they died in vain

When I the sacred spot behold,
For aye remembered and renowned,
Where dauntless hearts and arms as bold,
Strewed tyrants and their slaves around,
High hopes exulting fire my breast —
High notes triumphant swell my strain,
Joy to the brave! in victory blest —
Joy! joy! they perished not in vain.

But when thy ever mournful voice,
My country calls me to deplore
The champion of thy youthful choice,
Honoured, revered, but seen no more;
Heavy and quick my sorrows fall
For him who strove, with might and main,
To leave a lesson for us all,
How we might live — nor live in vain.

If, moulded of earth's common clay,
Thou hadst to sordid hearts stooped down,
Thy glorious talent flung away,
Or sold for price thy great renown;
In some poor pettifogging place
Slothful, inglorious, thou had'st lain,
Hording amid the unhonoured race,
Who doze, and dream, and die in vain.

A spark of HIS celestial fire,
The God of freemen struck from thee;
Made thee to spurn each low desire,
Nor bend the uncompromising knee;
Made thee to vow thy life, to rive
With ceaseless tug th' oppressor's chain
With lyre, with pen, with sword to strive
For thy dear land — nor strive in vain.

How hapless is our country's fate, —
If heaven in pity to us send
Like thee, one glorious, good and great —
To guide, instruct us, and amend
How soon thy honoured lite is o'er —
Soon Heaven demandeth thee again;
We grope on darkling as before,
And fear lest thou hast died in vain.

In vain, — no, never? O'er thy grave,
Thy spirit dwelleth in the air;
Thy passionate love, thy purpose brave,
Thy hope assured, thy promise fair
Generous and wise, farewell! — Forego
Tears for the glorious dead and gone
His tears, if tears are his , still flow
For slaves and cowards living on.