Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/44

My father's sword is in my hand,
    His deep voice haunts mine ear;
He tells me of the noble band,
    Whose lives have left a brooding glory here.

He bids their offspring guard from stain
    Their pure and lofty faith;
And yield up all things, to maintain
    The cause, for which they girt themselves to death.

And I obey.—I leave their towers
    Unto the stranger's tread;
Unto the creeping grass and flowers;
    Unto the fading pictures of the dead.

I leave their shields to slow decay,
    Their banners to the dust;
I go, and only bear away
    Their old, majestic name,—a solemn trust!