For us, whose every hope is fled,
The time is past to mourn the dead.
“The days have been, when o’er thy bier
Far other strains than these had flow’d;
Now, as a home from grief and fear,
We hail thy dark abode!
We, who but linger to bequeath
Our sons the choice of chains or death.
“Thou art with those, the free, the brave,
The mighty of departed years;