The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
The prayer went up through midnight’s breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke ’midst festive song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers or throne—
But all is not thine own.
“To thee the love of woman hath gone down;
Dark flow the tides o’er manhood’s noble head,
Or youth’s bright locks, and beauty’s flowery crown:
Yet must thou hear a voice—Restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!