 | The tri-color ; or the three days of blood, in Paris |  |
High honor to our countrymen—the brave,
Who did not shrink from the impending strife,
But, taught in the true principle, who gave,
Freely in Freedom's cause their blood and life.
They shall have memories in the coming hours,
And choicest recollections, which shall be,
Green as the summer's leaves and fresh as flow'rs,
That, thro' all seasons bloom eternally.
Their memories shall be trophies, and shall stand,
Linked with the martyrs who have bled before,
A crowning monument in every land,
A quenchless beacon for each storm-wrapt shore.
Their deeds and fate, well chronicled shall be,
Among the living archives of the free,
And though unknown each unrequited name,
Theirs is a title to undying fame—
The unchiselled marble under which they sleep,
Shall hold a record which shall firmer keep,
Even than itself, the memory of the fate,
Which bore without a name, a glorious date.
What higher trophy than, when men would know,
How all around have names, but those below—
And then shall learn, that pilgrims, when the flame
Of Freedom rose, from foreign shores, who came,
Assailed the Tyrant monster in his den,
And bled and perish'd, for their fellow men;
Nor claimed a bust, nor asked a shrine or tear,
To win one tribute for their bloody bier.
Who did not shrink from the impending strife,
But, taught in the true principle, who gave,
Freely in Freedom's cause their blood and life.
They shall have memories in the coming hours,
And choicest recollections, which shall be,
Green as the summer's leaves and fresh as flow'rs,
That, thro' all seasons bloom eternally.
Their memories shall be trophies, and shall stand,
Linked with the martyrs who have bled before,
A crowning monument in every land,
A quenchless beacon for each storm-wrapt shore.
Their deeds and fate, well chronicled shall be,
Among the living archives of the free,
And though unknown each unrequited name,
Theirs is a title to undying fame—
The unchiselled marble under which they sleep,
Shall hold a record which shall firmer keep,
Even than itself, the memory of the fate,
Which bore without a name, a glorious date.
75
How all around have names, but those below—
And then shall learn, that pilgrims, when the flame
Of Freedom rose, from foreign shores, who came,
Assailed the Tyrant monster in his den,
And bled and perish'd, for their fellow men;
Nor claimed a bust, nor asked a shrine or tear,
To win one tribute for their bloody bier.
| The tri-color ; or the three days of blood, in Paris | |