David Macbeth Moir (1798–1851)

UNNOTICED shall the mighty fall?

Unwept and unlamented die?—

Shall he, whom bonds could not enthral,

Who plann’d, who fought, who bled for all,

Unconsecrated lie?

Without a song, whose fervid strains

Might kindle fire in patriot veins!—

No!—thus it ne’er shall be: and fame

Ordains to thee a brighter lot;

While earth—while hope endures, thy name,

Pure, high, unchangeable, the same,

Shall never be forgot;

’Tis shrined amid the holy throng;

’Tis woven in immortal song!—

Yes!—Campbell, of the deathless lay,

The ardent poet of the free,

Has painted Warsaw’s latest day,

In colours that resist decay,

In accents worthy thee;

Thy hosts on battle-field array’d,

And in thy grasp the patriot blade!

O! sainted is the name of him,

And sacred should his relics be,

Whose course no selfish aims bedim;

Who, spotless as the seraphim,

Exerts his energy,

To make the earth by freemen trod,

And see mankind the sons of God!

And thou wert one of these; ’twas thine,

Through thy devoted country’s night,

The latest of a freeborn line,

With all that purity to shine,

Which makes a hero bright;

With all that lustre to appear,

Which freemen love and tyrants fear.

A myrtle wreath was on thy blade,

Which broke before its cause was won!

Thou, to no sordid fears betray’d,

Mid desolation undismay’d,

Wert mighty, though undone;

No terrors gloom’d thy closing scene,

In danger and in death serene!

Though thou hast bade our world farewell,

And left the blotted lands beneath,

In purer, happier realms to dwell;

With Wallace, Washington, and Tell,

Thou sharest the laurel wreath—

The Brutus of degenerate climes!

A beacon-light to other times!

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