With head to home and face to sky,
And feet the tyrant spurning,
So grand they look, so proud they lie,
We weep for glorious yearning.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who would not die to-morrow?
They in life's outer circle sleep,
As each in death stood sentry!
And like our England's dead still keep
Their watch for kin and country.
Up Alma, in their red footfalls,
Comes Freedom's dawn victorious,
Such graves are courts to festal halls!
They banquet with the Glorious.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who would not die to-morrow?
Our Chiefs who matched the men of yore,
And bore our shield's great burden,
The nameless Heroes of the Poor,
They all shall have their guerdon.
In silent eloquence, each life
The Earth holds up to heaven,
And Britain gives for child and wife
As those brave hearts have given.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who would not die to-morrow?
The Spirits of our Fathers still
Stand up in battle by us,
And, in our need, on Alma hill,
The Lord of Hosts was nigh us.
Pages:
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324