Chapter XXXVII

So will her sons, supremely brave,
Rejoice in vict’ry or the grave;
Howe’er around the world they rove,
Still, they their native soil will love;
The spark, from thee, great WASHINGTON!
First breath’d, shall warm each patriot son,
Raise in their breasts the lasting fire,
That ev’n in death, shall ne’er expire;
But, from their cold remains arise,
The flame of future victories.