130. it is great for our country to die.
Bright is the wreath of our fame; glory awaits us for aye--
Glory that never is dim, shining on with light never-ending--
Glory that never shall fade, never, 0 never, away!
Oh! it is sweet for our country to die! How softly reposes
Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love,
Wet by a mother's warm tears; they crown him with garlands of roses,
Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above.
Not to the shades shall the youth descend who for country hath perished;
Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her smile;
There at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherished;
Gods love the young who ascend pure from the funeral pile.
Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river;
Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue, rolling sea;
But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted forever;
There shall assemble the good, there the wise, valiant, and free.
Oh! then how great for our country to die — in the front rank to perish,
Firm with our breast to the foe, Victory's shout in our ear!
Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our memory cherish;
We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the sweet music to hear.