A Poem by Thomas Moore

From life without freedom, say, who would not fly?
For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?
Hark!–hark! ’tis the trumpet! the call of the brave,
The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave.
Our country lies bleeding–haste, haste to her aid;
One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.

In death’s kindly bosom our last hope remains–
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.
And oh, even if Freedom from this world be driven,
Despair not–at least we shall find her in heaven.