The Myrtle Bough

Still green, along our sunny shore,
The flowering myrtle waves,
As when its fragrant boughs of yore
Were offer’d 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 crown’d,
Sent the wreath’d lyre and wine-cup round.

Still green! as when on holy ground
The tyrant’s blood was pour’d:
Forget ye not what garlands bound
The young deliverer’s sword!
Though earth may shroud Harmodius now,
We still have sword and myrtle bough!