Though the suns of Eastern skies
On his cheek have set their dyes,
Though long toils and sleepless cares
On his brow have blanch’d the hairs,
Yet the night of fear is flown—
He is living, and our own!
Brethren! spread his festal board,
Hang his mantle and his sword,
With the armour, on the wall—
While this long, long silent hall