Victor o’er fear and death.
Where’er a chieftain’s crested brow
Too soon hath been struck down,
Or a bright virgin head laid low,
Wearing its youth’s first crown.
Where’er a spire points up to heaven,
Through storm and summer air,
Telling, that all around have striven
Man’s heart, and hope, and prayer.
Where’er a blessed home hath been,