The trump of war rings loudly, yet
Burns brighter Glory's flame;
Where the Sons of Liberty have met
To seal the scroll of fame.
They pause! that band--it is not fear
That bids the life-pulse start;
O, no! the high and resolved are here,
And those of the valorous heart.
They shrink not from the unequal fray,
These noble, godlike men;
And yet, O heaven! to thrust away
Cords that bind not again--
Now cheer ye! cheer ye to the strife!
For God the lot is cast;
To arms! to arms! the combat's rife,
The Rubicon is passed.
Years that have flown, ye gave to birth
Deeds of the lofty Brave;
A nation free among the earth,
Sits queen on Slavery's grave.
And those renowned, her Men of might,
That battled, toiled, and bled,
Have gone in the ray of Victory's light
To join the martyr-dead.
Blest is their lot, no common mould
Inwraps the veteran's form;
He slumbers, gathered to that fold
Where beats not Sorrow's storm.
But ye, hoar Sires! 'twas fit that ye
Thus hallowed your Proud Day,
When in thunders of that Jubilee
Your spirits passed away.
Yea, while your anthems rolled afar,
And our banners floated high,
Glory sublimely wreathed the car
That bore ye to the sky.
Released, ye wait in flesh not now
The spirit-stirring call;
O, God, 'tis lofty thus to bow,
'Tis glorious thus to fall.