Like voices of reeds by the summer breeze fanned;
It will call up a spirit for freedom, when only
Her breathings are heard in the songs of our land.
For they keep a record of those, the true hearted,
Who fell with the cause they had vowed to maintain;
They show us bright shadows of glory departed,
Of love that grew cold, and the hope that was vain.
The page may be lost and the pen long forsaken,
And weeds may grow wild o’er the brave heart and hand;
But ye are still left when all else hath been taken,