II.
Dead!
And the mother state,
Mother of noble sons,
Reaches her yearning arms.
Give him back to her now!
Cold is the kingly brow,
Noblest of noble ones!
He cannot serve you now;
Unheeding earthly things,
The royal soul, so great
To shield from threatening harms,
Has passed through a silent gate
That never outward swings.
Living, the world had need
Of him and his deathless name;—
Living, the world had need
Of him and his stainless fame;—
Living, we knew her need
Of him, and confessed her claim;—
Dead, he is only ours!
Cover his bier with flowers;
Give him back to us now!