STILL green, along our sunny shore, The flowering myrtle waves, As when its fragrant boughs of yore Were offered on the graves -- The graves, wherein our mighty men Had rest, unviolated then. Still green it waves! as when the hearth Was sacred through the land; And fearless was the banquet's mirth, And free the minstrel's hand; And guests, with shining myrtle crowned, Sent the wreathed lyre and wine-cup round. Still green, as when on holy ground The tyrant's blood was poured; Forget ye not what garlands bound The young deliverer's sword! Though earth may shroud Harmodious now, We still have sword and myrtle bough! |