Thy dew is bright upon this beechen spray!
Spring wakes thy harp! I hear--I see--again,
Thy wild steeds foaming thro' the crimson fray,
The raven on the white breast of thy slain,
The tumult of thy chariots, far away,
The weeping in the glens, the lustrous hair
Dishevelled over the stricken eagle's fall,
And in thy Druid groves, at fall of day
One gift that Britain gave her valorous there,
One gift of lordlier pride
Than aught--save to have died--
One spray of the sacred oak, they coveted most of all.