the last words, etc.
77
My father's sword! I know it well;
It is my proudest dower:
Let Europe's trembling millions tell
What was its magic power.
It led him nobly on to Fame;
It won him bright renown;
It brought proud incense to his name,—
A monarch's jeweled crown.
It is my proudest dower:
Let Europe's trembling millions tell
What was its magic power.
It led him nobly on to Fame;
It won him bright renown;
It brought proud incense to his name,—
A monarch's jeweled crown.
Hark! hark! is not that lofty note
My requiem-strain to be?
Upon the air its echoes float;
My father's hand I see.
Faint—fainter grows my breath: my frame
In death must slumber soon.
Let me but share my father's fame;
I ask no prouder boon.
My requiem-strain to be?
Upon the air its echoes float;
My father's hand I see.
Faint—fainter grows my breath: my frame
In death must slumber soon.
Let me but share my father's fame;
I ask no prouder boon.
