The voice of gratitude for those that fell,
Drowns every thought in those who live to mourn;
The hand of charity for those who are left.
Fills every heart and dries up every fear;
The record of a nation's loud applause,
Writes on their tombs in characters of brass.
And graves within our very souls, the words,
'Here lies his country's saviour.'
Rivers. But these can never pay the wrung in heart:
Pride is a poor exchange for those adored: