Pray for those who go down to death through unspeakable torments;
Pray for those who remain to suffer torture in prison;
Pray for the bitter grief of our mothers, our wives, our orphans;
Oh, pray, too, for thyself, on the way to thy final redemption!
When our still dwelling-place wraps night’s dusky mantle about her,
Leaving the dead alone with the dead, to watch till the morning,
Break not our rest, and seek not to lay death’s mystery open.
If now and then thou shouldst hear the string of a lute or a zithern,
Mine is the hand, dear country, and mine is the voice that is singing.
When my tomb, that all have forgot, no cross nor stone marketh, [[298]]