SONG.
Fill the cup to the ghosts of the dead!
The sage and the hero of old:—
The men who for liberty bled,
Unaw’d, uncorrupted by gold.
CHORUS.
Their mem’ries we’ll cherish,
Their names ne’er shall perish,
The rights which they won shall by us be preserv’d:—
The glory they earn’d shall by us be deserv’d!
Strike the harp to the praise of the dead!
With songs their high honors proclaim:—
Our valiant forefathers! who bled
For country, and freedom, and fame.
Their mem’ries we’ll cherish,
Their names ne’er shall perish,
The rights which they won shall by us be preserv’d:—
The glory they earn’d shall by us be deserv’d!
Chant a dirge to the shades of the dead!
The worthies of Albion’s story:
But let no weak tears be shed;
They rest in the light of their glory.
Their mem’ries we’ll cherish,
Their names ne’er shall perish,
The rights which they won shall by us be preserv’d:—
The glory they earn’d shall by us be deserv’d!
“O ENGLAND, MY COUNTRY!”
O England, my country! the land of the free;
Thou queen of the ocean, most fair!
The myrtle and laurel belong unto thee;
To science and liberty dear:
When dark clouds of slavery hung o’er the world,
And Europe was buried in night,
Midst thee, was the standard of freedom unfurl’d,
Religion o’er thee shed her light.
Should conquest allure thee; aggression provoke;
How terrible art thou array’d!
But mercy descends, as thy arm gives the stroke,
To heal the deep wounds war has made.
The light of the nations, my country! art thou;
A beacon that cheers the world round;
Thy name is a refuge—in it monarchs hide,
And earth’s thousand realms own its sound.
Go search the bright record of deeds which belongs
To France, or to Spain’s proudest days,
Their glory was built on humanity’s wrongs,
Their fame was the lightning’s fierce blaze:
But England! thy glory is rais’d on true worth,
And fair, as it beams o’er the wave,
Sheds light which illumines the crowns of the earth,
And cheers e’en the hut of the slave.