A Holy Grave

Far, very far away,

Whence in the gentle spring,

To us the swallows come;
Far, very far away,
Where in our wintry days,

The swallow has her home.

A holy grave doth rise,
Close to the green sea-waves

That wash the yellow shore;
A weeping willow's branch,
A wild shrub's crape-like veil

This lone grave shadeth o'er.

Beside this single shrub,
There comes no thing to mourn

The glorious dead's decease,
Who for a century,
After a busy life,

Sleeps here in endless peace.
He was a hero bold,
The last-left valorous knight.

Who for fair freedom fought:
But how could fate protect
One on whom his own land

Ingratitude had wrought-

He into exile went,
Lest his degenerate land

He should be forced to see,
And, seeing, he should curse;
While from an alien shore

He looks with charity.
And here, day after day,

He watched the clouds that came

From his own dearest home.
Was it the sunset glow,
Or yet his country's shame

That burned in heaven's dome?

He often sat to catch
The murmur of the waves

That move the rolling sea.
He almost dreamed he heard
His country once again,

Was happy, proud and free!

That he should hear once more
His native land was free

Was still his fond belief.
And for his freedom's news
He waited, until death

Brought him most sweet relief.

At home, even now, his name
Is hardly known. But one

Remembers him, the bard.
Forgotten he would be —
Sang not the bard of him,

Freedom's eternal guard!