Let the fresh wreaths be shed!
For the Roncesvalles’ field is won,—
There slumber England’s dead.
On the frozen deep’s repose
’Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern night-clouds lower;—
But let the ice drift on!
Let the cold-blue desert spread!
Their course with mast and flag is done,—