Take these flowers which, purple waving,
On the ruin'd rampart grew,
Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.
Warriors from the breach of danger
Pluck no longer laurels there;
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreaths the Beauty's hair.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Sir Walter Scott, you are a tender-hearted romantic though if I were the Beauty that you gave those flowers from the graves of brave warriors to, I think I would weep. The man could write, couldn't he?