| |
| ONE voice, one people, one in heart, | |
| And soul, and feeling, and desire. | |
| Re-light the smouldering martial fire, | |
| And sound the mute trumpet! Strike the lyre! | |
| The hero dead cannot expire; | 5 |
| The dead still play their part. | |
| |
| Raise high the monumental stone! | |
| A nation’s fealty is theirs; | |
| And we are the rejoicing heirs, | |
| The honoured sons of sires, whose cares | 10 |
| We take upon us unawares | |
| As freely as our own. | |
| |
| We boast not of the victory, | |
| But render homage, deep and just, | |
| To his—to their—immortal dust, | 15 |
| Who proved so worthy of their trust; | |
| No lofty pile nor sculptured bust | |
| Can herald their degree. | |
| |
| No tongue can blazon forth their fame— | |
| The cheers that stir the sacred hill | 20 |
| Are but mere promptings of the will | |
| That conquered them, that conquers still; | |
| And generations yet shall thrill | |
| At Brock’s remembered name. | |
| |
| Some souls are the Hesperides | 25 |
| Heaven sends to guard the golden age, | |
| Illuming the historic page | |
| With record of their pilgrimage; | |
| True martyr, hero, poet, sage;— | |
| And he was one of these. | 30 |
| |
| Each in his lofty sphere, sublime, | |
| Sits crowned above the common throng; | |
| Wrestling with some pythonic wrong | |
| In prayer, in thunders, thought or song, | |
| Briareus-limbed, they sweep along, | 35 |
| The Typhons of the time. | |
| |
