The nobler passions of the soul.
It is the muse that consecrates
The native banner of the brave,
Unfurling at the trumpet’s breath,
Rose, thistle, harp; ’tis she elates
To sweep the field or ride the wave,
A sunburst in the storm of death.
And thou, young hero, when thy pall
Is crossed with mournful sword and plume,
When public grief begins to fade,