George Gordon Byron

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Thy days are done, thy fame begun;
    Thy country’s strains record
The triumphs of her chosen Son,
    The slaughters of his sword!
The deeds he did, the fields he won,
    The freedom he restored!

Though thou art fall’n, while we are free
    Thou shalt not taste of death!
The generous blood that flowed from thee
    Disdained to sink beneath:
Within our veins its currents be,
    Thy spirit on our breath!

Thy name our charging hosts along,
    Shall be the battle-word!
Thy fall, the theme of choral song
    From virgin voices poured!
To weep will do thy glory wrong:
    Thou shalt not be deplored.