O hearts devoted! whose illustrious doom Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb, Ye firm and faithful, in the ordeal tried Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified; Shrined, not entomb’d, ye rest in sacred earth, Hallow’d by deeds of more than mortal worth. What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust, No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust, Yours, on the scene where valour’s race was run, A prouder sepulchre--the field ye won! There every mead, each cabin’s lowly name, Shall live a watchword blended with your fame; And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown That ask no urn to blazon their renown! There shall the bard in future ages tread, And bless each wreath that blossoms o’er the dead; Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave O’er the low mounds, the altars of the brave! Pause o’er each warrior’s grass-grown bed, and hear In every breeze some name to glory dear; And as the shades of twilight close around, With martial pageants people all the ground. Thither unborn descendants of the slain Still throng as pilgrims to the holy fane, While as they trace each spot, whose records tell Where fought their fathers, and prevail’d, and fell, Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow, Claiming proud kindred with the dust below! And many an age shall see the brave repair To learn the Hero’s bright devotion there. And well, Ausonia! may that field of fame, From thee one song of echoing triumph claim. Land of the lyre! ’twas there th’ avenging sword Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored; Those precious trophies o’er thy realms that throw A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe, And bid the stranger for awhile forget How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet. Yes, fair creations! to perfection wrought, Embodied visions of ascending thought! Forms of sublimity! by Genius traced In tints that vindicate adoring taste! Whose bright originals, to earth unknown, Live in the spheres encircling glory’s throne; Models of art, to deathless fame consign’d, Stamp’d with the high-born majesty of mind; Yes, matchless works! your presence shall restore One beam of splendour to your native shore, And her sad scenes of lost renown illume, As the bright sunset gilds some hero’s tomb. Oh! ne’er, in other climes, though many an eye Dwelt on your charms, in beaming ecstasy-- Ne’er was it yours to bid the soul expand With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand, As in that realm, where each faint breeze’s moan Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone; Where midst the ruin’d shrines of many a vale, E’en Desolation tells a haughty tale, And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends, But its proud name with song eternal blends!