 | Poems by William Stanley Roscoe |  |
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Νησοις δ'εν μακαρων σε φασιν ειναι.
How shall he rest whose mouldering handHath struggled for his native land?
Dishonour'd, shall his ashes lie
Trodden down by tyranny?
Or shall oppression walk the ground,
And his suffering spirit wound?
No! Freedom's mighty hand shall save
Her champion from a traitor's grave:
And midst the relics of the just
Shrine his rich and holy dust.
And o'er the lov'd, the honour'd dead,
Gushing tears shall Erin shed;
And call her weeping children round,
And bid them mark the hallow'd ground;
And throw the living laurel wreath
On the closing shroud of death.
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Shall flow upon that mournful hour;
And hymns be sung, to soothe to rest
The hero's soul in islands blest:
Blest for ever be the dead,
They who have for Freedom bled!
| Poems by William Stanley Roscoe | |