No more upon Parnassus' hill
Thou'lt string thy patriot lyre; To tell those feats which nations thrill,
Which youthful spirits fire. How, on the blood-red battle field
Great heroes fall, but never yield;
True courage is the only shield
Thy whole-souled Briton owns.

No more thou'lt sing thy graceful lays
Of rock, and mount, and stream; Or cause the light from Heaven's pure rays
O'er nature's face to beam. We heard the rustle of the tree,
The humming of the busy bee,
When nature waked to life with thee
In joyous harmony.

But though thy harp is silent now,
And hearts may mourn thee long; Where halos crown the victor's brow
Thou sing'st the angels' song. Dust mingles with its kindred dust,
Soul joins the army of the just;—
Their Leader was thy hope and trust
Through life's long pilgrimage.