THE PATRIOT DEAD

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

Sweet in the days of Roman worth,
The Roman counted death,
When for his rugged land of birth
He gave his latest breath.

And thus, in every land and time,
Where patriot pulses throb,
Their heroes count the deed sublime
To die for home and God.

Then let for every soldierís mound,
And each heroic spot,
The grateful teardrops wet the ground,
Nor flowers be forgot.

Let England mourn for those who fell
For her at Marston Moor;
And France still sing of Charles Martel
Who fought the field of Tours.

For Limerick's walls and banks of Boyne
The Irish harp still rings,
Sweden shall still with Prussia join
To praise their hero kings.

And still, as long as heather waves,
The Scottish heart shall yearn
For those who sleep in patriot graves,
For Bruce at Bannockburn.

But oh! for us no glories fled
Our throbbing hearts shall thrill
Like those that linger round thy dead,
Shiloh and Bunker Hill!

The one defied the tyrants reign
And dashed his scepter down :ó
The other broke the black manís chain
And placed on him the crown.

No bulletís sting or bayonetís shock
Now stirs that hero band
Their sepulcher the solid rock
Where Hope and Freedom stand.

Then let the Roman annals claim
Horatius at the bridge ;ó
Our flowers for those who faced the flame
On Missionary Ridge!

Let hearts still glow with patriot fire
On this Memorial Day
And children learn from patriot sire
For Fatherland to pray.

And sweet and calm their resting place
In summer evening rain
Who for the flag and exiled race
Poured out their lives in pain.

May 30. 1892.



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