The hosts of the foe from our country were driven.
In the fair realms of song thy sons also excel,
Midst the gifted of earth do their memories dwell;
And of praise of thy minstrels, from nations around,
Still the echo returns, with a flattering sound.
But purer, and brighter, and higher, by far,
Than of those that have triumphed in song or in war,
Are the names,—never breathed but with love they are heard,—
Of thy fearless Reformers, thy Martyrs revered.
Now thy sword is at rest, and thy harp is laid by,