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Yes--clash, ye bells, in triumph!
Yes--roar, ye cannon, roar!
Not for the living only,
But for those who come no more.
For the brave hearts coldly lying
In their far-off gory graves,
By the Alma's reddened waters,
And the Euxine's dashing waves.
For thee, thou weeping mother,
We grieve; our pity hears
Thy wail, O wife; the fallen,
For them we have no tears;
No--but with pride we name them,
For grief their memory wrongs;
Our proudest thoughts shall claim them,
And our exalting songs.
Heights of the rocky Alma,
The flags that scaled you bore
"Plassey," "Quebec," and "Blenheim,"
And many a triumph more;
And they shall show your glory
Till men shall silent be,
Of Waterloo and Maida
Moultan and Meanee.
I look; another glory
Methinks they give to fame;
By Badajoz and Bhurtpoor
Streams out another name;
From captured fleet and city,
And fort, the thick clouds roll,
And on the flags above them
Is writ "Sebastopol.


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