18
NATIONAL LYRICS.
Who murmured of the dead?
Hush, boding voice! We know
That many a shining head
Lies in its glory low.
Breathe not those names to-day!
They shall have their praise e'er long,
And a power all hearts to sway,
In ever-burning song.
But now shed flowers, pour wine,
To hail the conquerors home!
Bring wreaths for every shrine—
Io! they come, they come!
