Whose flowery land hath borne no tread
Of spoilers o’er its shrines!
Thou hast thrown off the load
Which we must yet sustain,
And pour our blood where thine hath flow’d,
Too blest if not in vain!
We give thee holy rite,
Slow knell, and chanted strain!
—For those that fall to-morrow night,
May be left no funeral-train.