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I NOT with slow, funereal sound | |
Come we to this sacred ground; | |
Not with wailing fife and solemn muffled drum, | |
Bringing a cypress wreath | |
To lay, with bended knee, | 5 |
On the cold brows of Death | |
Not so, dear God, we come, | |
But with the trumpets blare | |
And shot-torn battle-banners flung to air, | |
As for a victory! | 10 |
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Hark to the measured tread of martial feet, | |
The music and the murmurs of the street! | |
No bugle breathes this day | |
Disaster and retreat! | |
Hark, how the iron lips | 15 |
Of the great battle-ships | |
Salute the City from her azure Bay! | |
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II Time wastime was, ah, unforgotten years! | |
We paid our hero tribute of our tears. | |
But now let go | 20 |
All sounds and signs and formulas of woe: | |
T is Life, not Death, we celebrate; | |
To Life, not Death, we dedicate | |
This storied bronze, whereon is wrought | |
The lithe immortal figure of our thought, | 25 |
To show forever to mens eyes, | |
Our childrens childrens childrens eyes, | |
How once he stood | |
In that heroic mood, | |
He and his dusky braves | 30 |
So fain of glorious graves! | |
One instant stood, and then | |
Drave through that cloud of purple steel and flame, | |
Which wrapt him, held him, gave him not again, | |
But in its trampled ashes left to Fame | 35 |
An everlasting name! | |
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III That was indeed to live | |
At one bold swoop to wrest | |
From darkling death the best | |
That death to life can give. | 40 |
He fell as Roland fell | |
That day at Roncevaux, | |
With foot upon the ramparts of the foe! | |
A pæan, not a knell, | |
For heroes dying so! | 45 |
No need for sorrow here, | |
No room for sigh or tear, | |
Save such rich tears as happy eyelids know. | |
See where he rides, our Knight! | |
Within his eyes the light | 50 |
Of battle, and youths gold about his brow; | |
Our Paladin, our Soldier of the Cross, | |
Not weighing gain with loss | |
World-loser, that won all | |
Obeying dutys call! | 55 |
Not his, at perils frown, | |
A pulse of quicker beat; | |
Not his to hesitate | |
And parley hold with Fate, | |
But proudly to fling down | 60 |
His gauntlet at her feet. | |
O soul of loyal valor and white truth, | |
Here, by this iron gate, | |
Thy serried ranks about thee as of yore, | |
Stand thou for evermore | 65 |
In thy undying youth! | |
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The tender heart, the eagle eye! | |
Oh, unto him belong | |
The homages of Song; | |
Our praises and the praise | 70 |
Of coming days | |
To him belong | |
To him, to him, the dead that shall not die! | |
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