But let the sound roll on!
It hath no tone of dread
For those that from their toils are gone;—
There slumber England's dead.
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 storms rage on!
Let the forest-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 warlike 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.