If, heav'nly Muse, you burn with a desire
To praise the man whom all admire;
Come from thy learn'd Castalian springs,
And stretch aloft thy Pegasean wings:
Strike the loud Pindarick strings,
Like the lark who soars and sings;
And as you sail the liquid skies,
Cast on Menapian fields your weeping eyes:
For weep they surely must,
To see the bloody annual sacrifice;
To think how the neglected dust,
Which with contempt is basely trod,
Was once the limbs of captains, brave and just,
The mortal part of some great demi-god;
Who for thrice fifty years of stubborn war,
With slaught'ring arms, the gun and sword,
Have dug the mighty sepulchre,
And fell as martyrs on record,
Of tyranny aveng'd, and liberty restor'd.