Your rivers pour their gold, rejoicing saw
The altar, and the birthplace, and the tomb,
And all memorials of man’s heart and faith,
Thus proudly honour’d! Be ye not outdone
By the departed! Though the godless foe
Be close upon us, we have power to snatch
The spoils of victory from him. Be but strong!
A few bright torches and brief moments yet
Shall baffle his flush’d hope; and we may die,
Laughing him unto scorn. Rise, follow me!