THEY sought for treasures in the tomb, Where gentler hands were wont to spread Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom, And sunny ringlets, for the dead. They scattered far the greensward heap, Where once those hands the bright wine poured, -- What found they in the home of sleep? -- A mouldering urn, a shivered sword! An urn, which held the dust of one Who died when hearths and shrines were free; A sword, whose work was proudly done Between our mountains and the sea. And these are treasures! -- undismayed, Still for the suffering land we trust, Wherein the past its fame hath laid, With freedom's sword, and valor's dust. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PROGRESSIVE HEALTH by CARL DENNIS PIANO by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE ON MILTON'S PARADISE LOST by ANDREW MARVELL THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: DECEMBER by EDMUND SPENSER NATALIA'S RESURRECTION: 23 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT A POINT OF VIEW by LETITIA A. BRACE HEAVEN AND EARTH by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |