Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
...
That strain again? It seems to tell
Of something like a joy departed;
I love its mourning accents well,
Like voice of one, ah! broken-hearted.
...
Oh say not that my heart is cold
To aught that once could warm it -
That Nature's Form so dear of old
No more has power to charm it;
...