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252 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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THE WAKE OF WILLIAM ORR
T
HERE our murdered brother lies ; Wake him not with woman's cries; Mourn the way that manhood ought — Sit in silent trance of thought.
Write his merits on your mind; Morals pure and manners kind; In his head, as on a hill,' Virtue placed her citadel.
Why cut off in palmy youth ? Truth he spoke, and acted truth. "Countrymen, unite," he cried, And died for what our Saviour died.
God of peace and God of love ! Let it not Thy vengeance move — Let it not thy lightnings draw — A nation guillotined by law.
Hapless Nation, rent and torn, Thou wert early taught to mourn; Warfare of six hundred years ! Epochs marked with blood and tears !
Hunted thro' thy native grounds, Or flung reward to human hounds, Each one pulled and tore his share, Heedless of thy deep despair.
Hapless Nation ! hapless Land ! Heap of uncementing sand ! |
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