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But hark! ere yet the echo fails that soft your midnight strain repeats,
Pale Sorrow In her cavern wails, and wild her solemn harp she beats:—

"O ye who strove when close and fast War's flaming arrows hissed afar,
And where god Slavery rode, were cast to death, beneath its gory car;
And thou great Chief, who, sure of God, within the fiery furnace thrown,
Like those of old securely trod, nor walked the burning path alone;

"Bay-crowned, the golden hills ye climb, and holy hosts your ranks surround:
They lead your skyward march sublime, while all heaven's pealing clarions sound;
The stars may linger in their spheres, the suns may falter as they whirl,
Ye still will count your blissful years,—like silver shining flowers unfurl.

"But year on year shall roll away; while blossoms blush or fade the leaves,
Ye shall not through our valleys stray, nor bind again our rustling sheaves.