The impress of your soul's high martyrdom;
And we pay each the homage due to you.
All nursing-hands are gentler still—for you!
All nursing-feet are swifter still—for you!
All nursing-hearts are braver still—for you!
And all our souls more loftily attuned
By our sweet memory of you.
But dead—ay, dead, in grimmest truth,
The soul of that poor land