And the mind’s grandeur, in its parting hour,
Looks from that brow with more than wonted power.
“Away!” he cries, in accents of command,
And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand.
“Apostate, hence! my soul shall soon be free—
E’en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee.
’Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes
Of him who faithful to his country dies;
Not for thy hand to raise the drooping head
Of him who sinks to rest on glory’s bed.