CHANT.
A sword is on the land!
He that bears down young tree and glorious flower,
Death is gone forth, he walks the wind in power!
Where is the warrior’s hand?
Our steps are in the shadows of the grave:
Hear us, we perish!—Father, hear and save!
If, in the days of song,
The days of gladness, we have call’d on thee.
When mirthful voices rang from sea to sea,