Poems (Botta)/Ode
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ODE.
Our patriot sires are gone,
The conqueror Death lays low
Those veterans one by one,
Who braved each other foe;—
Though on them rests death’s sable pall,
Yet o’er their deeds no shade shall fall.
The conqueror Death lays low
Those veterans one by one,
Who braved each other foe;—
Though on them rests death’s sable pall,
Yet o’er their deeds no shade shall fall.
No, ye of deathless fame!
Ye shall not sleep unsung,
While freedom hath a name,
Or gratitude a tongue;—
Yet shall your names and deeds sublime
Shine brighter through the mists of Time.
Ye shall not sleep unsung,
While freedom hath a name,
Or gratitude a tongue;—
Yet shall your names and deeds sublime
Shine brighter through the mists of Time.
Oh, keep your armor bright,
Sons of those mighty dead,
And guard ye well the right,
For which such blood was shed!
Your starry flag should only wave
O’er Freedom’s home, or o’er your grave.
Sons of those mighty dead,
And guard ye well the right,
For which such blood was shed!
Your starry flag should only wave
O’er Freedom’s home, or o’er your grave.