Dear unforgotten eyes salute us still,
Look back a moment, make our pulses thrill
With the old music, though the festal weed
Of Spring be cypress-girt, oblivion
Will come, as Winter will.
Ah, not oblivion drowsing love and pain
Into dull slumber; still we can retell
How young blithe valour broke the powers of hell;
We grope for hands that will not stir again
In ours, hear still in every carillon