The arm is unbraced and the nerves are unstrung
Of him who in combat that dark weapon swung;
For the souls of the heroes of loftier days,
Kindled high in their glory, have sunk in the blaze:
And the laurels of Britain, droop’d, wither’d and shrunk,
And her standard of freedom all hopelessly sunk,
And the sons of the isles, scatter’d thin on the hill,
Stood forsaken and drooping, but dauntlessly still.
Ye sons of the brave! is the bold spirit fled
Which to combat and conquest your forefathers led?