The hope not compassed and yet not void,
We perish so; but the world shall mark
On the hilltop of our work we died,
With joy of the groom before the bride,
With a dawn-cry thro’ the battle’s dark.
III
O last save me on the scaffold’s round!
Take heart, that after a thirst profound
The cup of delicious death is near,
And whoso hold it, or whence it flow,