Whose is the victory? Answer ye,
Who, dying, smiled at tyranny?
Under the sky's triumphal arch
The glories of the dawn begin.
Our dead, our shadowy armies march
E'en now, in silence, through Berlin;
Dumb shadows, tattered, blood-stained ghosts
But cast by what swift following hosts?
And answer, England! At thy side,
Thro' seas of blood, thro' mists of tears,