Loud rush the torrent floods
The western wilds among,
And free in green Columbia’s woods
The hunter’s bow is strung;—
But let the floods rush on!
Let the arrow’s flight be sped!
Why should they reck whose task is done?—
There slumber England’s dead.
The mountain-storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky
Like rose-leaves on the breeze;—
But let the storm rage on!
Let the fresh wreaths be shed!
For the Roncesvalles’ field is won,—
There slumber England’s dead.
On the frozen deep’s repose
’Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern night-clouds lour;—
But let the ice drift on!
Let the cold-blue desert spread!
Their course with mast and flag is done,—
Even there sleep England’s dead.
The war-like of the isles,
The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?
Go, stranger! track the deep—
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England’s dead.
Felicia Hemans.