|
LITTLE, perhaps, thou valuest verse of mine— Little hast read of what my hand has wrought, Yet I with thy brave memory would entwine The muse’s amaranths. For thou well hast fought For freedom; well her sacred lessons taught; Well baffled wrong; and delved with far design Into those elements where treasures shine Excelling those wherewith our hills are fraught. And when thy glorious grey head shall make One spot all-hallowed for the coming days— Tombed in the golden land for whose sole sake With labour thou hast furrowed all thy ways,— Well a young nation shall thy worth appraise Even through the grief which then shall o’er thee break. |