Where, though it weeps, yet gives a smile
Unto her brave boy’s last wild breath.
Oh, proudly will his mother see
Her Country wreathe his hero-tomb,
And many a Spring nurse tenderly,
With nature’s tears, the garland’s bloom!
How sweet will be the song of praise,
Where his dear relics peaceful lie!
How grand—away exultant thoughts!
Oh God! he must not, must not die!