We’ll change their triumph into blank dismay.
Yet—for I scorn the hope one hour may blast,
Nor speak through fear—this fight may prove our last;
If one half hour unmastered we hold our post,
All shall be well—if broken, all is lost.
So friends, dear friends, ere yet this cast we dare,
This closing game twixt triumph and despair,
One friendly grasp, not one regretful sigh,
We have been true, and as we lived we’ll die.
Now then, all’s well—be resolute—be dumb,