Over his millions Death has lawful power,
But over thee, brave D’Ossoli! none, none.
After a longer struggle, in a fight
Worthy of Italy, to youth restor’d,
Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surge
Of the Atlantic; on its shore; in reach
Of help; in trust of refuge; sunk with all
Precious on earth to thee... a child, a wife!
Proud as thou wert of her, America
Is prouder, showing to her sons how high
Swells woman’s courage in a virtuous breast.
She would not leave behind her those she lov’d:
Such solitary safety might become
Others; not her; not her who stood beside
The pallet of the wounded, when the worst
Of France and Perfidy assail’d the walls
Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,
Renown’d for strength of genius, Margaret!
Rest with the twain too dear! My words are few,
And shortly none will hear my failing voice,
But the same language with more full appeal
Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of song
Whom thou hast heard upon thy native plains
Worthy to sing of thee: the hour is come;
Take we our seats and let the dirge begin.