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6o THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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The coward's dying eyes may close
Upon his downy bed, And softest hands his limbs compose,
Or garments o'er them spread. But ye who shun the bloody fray,
When fall the mangled brave, Go—strip his coffin-lid away,
And see him in his grave !
'Twere sweet, indeed, to close our eyes, With those we cherish near,
And, wafted upwards by their sighs, Soar to some calmer sphere.
But whether on the scaffold high, Or in the battle's van,
The fittest place where man can die .Is where he dies for man ! |
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THE SWORD
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HAT rights the brave? The sword ! What frees the slave ? The sword! What cleaves in twain The despot's chain, And makes his gyves and dungeons vain ? The sword !
CHORUS
Then cease thy proud task never While rests a link to sever ! |
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