Loud rush the torrent-floods
The western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia's woods,
The hunter's bow is strung.
But let the floods rush on!
Let the arrow's flight be sped!
Why should _they_ reck whose task is done?
_There_ slumber England's dead.
The mountain-storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,
Like rose-leaves on the breeze.
But let the storms rage on!
Let the forest-wreaths be shed:
For the Roncesvalles' field is won,--
_There_ slumber England's dead.
On the frozen deep's repose
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern-night-clouds lour;
But let the ice drift on!
Let the cold-blue desert spread!
_Their_ course with mast and flag is done,
Even _there_ sleep England's dead.
The warlike of the isles,
The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles?
The seas and shores their grave?
Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.
Pages:
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349