bold
      As death-devoted freemen;
    Like those Three Hundred Greeks of old,
      Or Rome’s immortal Three Men. 
    Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! 
      Like Love, thou bringest sorrow. 
    But, O! for such an hour with thee,
      Who would not die to-morrow?

    With towering heart and lightsome feet
      They went to their high places;
    The fiery valour at white heat
      Was kindled in their faces! 
    Magnificent in battle-robe,
      And radiant, as from star-lands,
    That spirit shone which girds our globe
      With glory, as with garlands! 
    Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! 
      Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
    But, O! for such an hour with thee,
      Who would not die to-morrow?

    They saw the Angel Iris o’er
      Their deluge of grim fire;
    And with their life’s last tide they bore
      The Ark of Freedom higher! 
    And grander ‘tis i’ the dash of death
      To ride on battle’s billows,
    When Victory’s kisses take the breath,
      Than sink on balmiest pillows. 
    Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! 
      Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
    But, O! for such an hour with thee,
      Who would not die to-morrow?

    Brave hearts, with noble feelings flushed;
      In valour’s ruddy riot
    But yesterday! how are ye hushed
      Beneath the smile of quiet! 
    For us they poured their blood like wine,
      From life’s ripe-gathered clusters;
    And far through History’s night shall shine
      Their deeds with starriest lustres. 
    Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! 
      Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
    But, O! for such an hour with thee,
      Who would not die to-morrow?

    We laid them not in churchyard home,
      Beneath our darling daisies: 
    Where to their grave-mounds Love might come,
      And sit and sing their praises. 
    But soothly sweet shall be their rest
      Where Victory’s hands have crowned them
    To Earth our Mother’s bosom pressed,
      And Heaven’s arms around them. 
    Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! 
      Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
    But, O! for such an hour with thee,
      Who would not die to-morrow?

    Yes, there they lie ’neath Alma’s sod,
      On pillows dark and gory—­
    As brave a host as ever trod
      Old England’s path to glory. 
    With head to home and face to sky,
      And feet the tyrant spurning,
    So grand they look, so proud they lie,
      We weep for glorious yearning. 
    Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! 
      Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
    But, O! for such an hour with thee,
      Who would not die to-morrow?