 | The Poems of Thomas Davis |  |
xxix
To the Memory of Thomas Davis.
BY JOHN FISHER MURRAY.
When on the field where freedom bled,
I press the ashes of the brave,
Marvelling that man should ever dread
Thus to wipe 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.
I press the ashes of the brave,
Marvelling that man should ever dread
Thus to wipe 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.
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.
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.
xxx
If, moulded of earth's common clay,
Thou had'st to sordid arts 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,
Herding amid the unhonoured race,
Who doze, and dream, and die in vain.
Thou had'st to sordid arts 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,
Herding 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.
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 life is o'er—
Soon Heaven demandeth thee again;
We grope on darkling as before,
And fear lest thou hast died in vain.
If Heaven in pity to us send
Like thee, one glorious, good, and great—
To guide, instruct us, and amend;
How soon thy honoured life 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.
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.
| The Poems of Thomas Davis | |