DIRGE.
I
Ye trumpets of long-buried hosts
Peal, peal no longer in mine ears!
No more afflict me, wailing ghosts
Of princedoms quell'd and vanished years!
Freeze on my face, forbidden tears:
And thou, O heart whose hopes are dead
Sleep well, like hearts that sleep in lead
Embalmed 'mid royal sepulchres.
II
The stream that one time rolled in blood
A stainless crystal winds to-day:
Fresh scions of the branded wood
Detain the flying feet of May:
The linnet chants 'mid ruins grey;
The young lambs bound the graves among:—
O Mother-land! he does thee wrong
Who with thy playmates scorns to play.
