Or weaving, while the voice of wail was loud,
Round childhood, early lost, the drapery of the shroud.
Born in the lap of plenty and of wealth,
Mindless, too oft, are children of the sire
Who purchased at the fearful price of health,
And even life, their heritage. The lyre
Should call forth music from its proudest wire
In praise of men who brave, to bless their kind,
Tempest, the sword, foul pestilence and fire;
Their names in grateful hearts should be enshrined,