But, even then, an echo of my breath
Through the long years, with trumpet inspiration,
Shall lead thy Best to victory, or death!
And, if no more they may be called a Nation,
Shall teach them how to fall with Samson-wrath;
Yea! fall in triumph, midst the desolation
Of throne, and rostrum, altar, and of hearth!
Nor, where the blessed corn-crop fail, to leave
To poisonous weeds the heirship of the earth.
Oh! well these tried and aged eyes may grieve,