Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          FORGET not the field where they perish’d,

                The truest, the last of the brave,

          All gone — and the bright hope we cherish’d

                Gone with them, and quench’d 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, though blazon’d 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.

          For 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.