In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power
To wake the stormy joy of danger’s hour;
To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain,
Rouse from despondence, and support in pain;
And, midst the deepening tumults of the strife,
Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life.
High o’er the camp, in many a broider’d fold,
Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold:
There, imaged on the cross, his form appears
Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears—[73]