No bitter word from me hast thou to bear:
I mourn thy doom—thy sense of wrong I share.
Thou ancient warrior, blood-stain'd, weary, wild,
Death and the furies claim thee for their child.
Take now thy rest, since thou alone hast kept
Watch through the slow night-hours when Europe slept;
For freedom striving, when the very word
'Midst other nations had been long unheard.
My heart has thrill'd at thy forefathers' fame—
Leap'd at the mention of Paoli's name—