Forget not the field where they perished,

  The truest, the last of the brave,

All gone—and the bright hope we cherished

  Gone with them, and quenched in their grave!

Oh! could we from death but recover

  Those hearts as they bounded before,

In the face of high heaven to fight over

  That combat for freedom once more;—

Could the chain for an instant be riven

  Which Tyranny flung round us then,

No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven,

  To let Tyranny bind it again!

But 'tis past—and, tho' blazoned in story

  The name of our Victor may be,

Accurst is the march of that glory

  Which treads o'er the hearts of the free.

Far dearer the grave or the prison,

  Illumed by one patriot name,

Than the trophies of all, who have risen

  On Liberty's ruins to fame.