Heard ye that lofty pealing sound Upon the balmy air.
Th' exulting shout that best proclaime The deeds which heroes dare?
In triumph blow their trumpets proud. The clouds repeat their voice, Go, greet the laurell'd victors home. And bid our realms rejoice
What! Hears't thou not their joyous din" Behold, above the vale, Their haughty plumes and ensigns red Are flutt'ring in the gale,
Alas! The vision mocks my sight, I see no gallant throng. No trophies meet my longing eyes, Bid cease the joyous song.
That recreant slave is not my lord: Ne'er thus the brave return; Go, bid the city gates be barr'd. And leave me lone to mourn.
know him not. I never knew A low ignoble love My warrior sleeps upon the moor. His soul hath soared above
Upon the battle-field he lies, His garments stain'd with gore; With sword in hand prepared he sleeps To fight the battle o'er
Where the helmets rang, where sabres smote.
He found his gory bed;
Join, mourners, join and loudly raise
The requiem of the dead.
The mountain-torrent rushing down/ Can ne'er its course retrace, And souls that speed on glory's path Must ever onward press:
Aye, onward press-to bleed and die,Triumphant still in death: Imposter, hence! In other lands go draw thy coward breath.