Than tongues more eloquent, O “Child of Destiny!”
Then, when the trumpet brattled with his name,
In the mad morning of his opening days,
And his best music was the voice of Fame,
Merging each accent of a lowlier praise—
How changed along the ice-path of that land,
The mountain-barrier of an empire, then,
Had that stern spirit strode—the loud command
Sunk to that suasion that makes captive men,
By its great moral harmony, and pours