'Tis only when thy lips are cold,
We mourn with late regret,
Mid myriad memories of old,
The days for ever set!
And not an act—nor look—nor thought—
Against thy meek control,
But with a sad remembrance fraught
Wakes anguish in the soul!
On every land—in every clime—
True to her sacred cause,
Filled by that effluence sublime
From which her strength she draws;
Still is the Mother's heart the same—
The Mother's lot as tried—
Then, oh! may Nations guard that name
With filial power and pride!
—Charles Swain.
