Till conquers he tyranny harsh and despotic,
Or first in the front of the battle he dies.
Ye offer him laurels, ye crown him with praises,
Who falls in the fight with his face to the foe,
And gratitude over his sepulcher raises
The marbles eternal of national woe.
Your strains are as high as the cloud-covered mountains,
As deep as the ocean, as wide as the land,
As pure as the murmurs of silvery fountains,
But loud as the roar on the billowy strand.