 | My Lyrical Life |  |
BEFORE SEBASTOPOL.
At last we grip the Tyrant! Now
There's not a heart so lowly
But burns to strike a battle-blow,
And win a cause so holy!
The Brave look fearless in the eyes
Of Death, nor cry him quarter;
And grand promotion waits them, Boys,
Who fall by land or water!
There's not a heart so lowly
But burns to strike a battle-blow,
And win a cause so holy!
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Of Death, nor cry him quarter;
And grand promotion waits them, Boys,
Who fall by land or water!
To-day the ancient valour starts;
The Spirit of old story
Shall flash from out heroic hearts,
And kindle England's glory.
Wild voices wail across the sea,—
They cry from many a woe-land,—
Revenge! remember Sinope!
Revenge! remember Poland!
The Spirit of old story
Shall flash from out heroic hearts,
And kindle England's glory.
Wild voices wail across the sea,—
They cry from many a woe-land,—
Revenge! remember Sinope!
Revenge! remember Poland!
We seek the bed of Death, to win
Fair Freedom's dream of beauty,
Or wrest her from the Tyrant, in
The loving arms of duty.
Then gaily through the ocean-foam
Will sail our nobler Argo,
And proudly to our Island-home
Shall bear the precious cargo.
Fair Freedom's dream of beauty,
Or wrest her from the Tyrant, in
The loving arms of duty.
Then gaily through the ocean-foam
Will sail our nobler Argo,
And proudly to our Island-home
Shall bear the precious cargo.
Think how their happy eyes will brim
To greet us on the beaches,
With blissful looks of love that swim
Through long luxurious reaches!
They watch us now from out the West,
But all too proud to sorrow
For us who rest on Victory's breast,
Or wear her wreath to-morrow.
To greet us on the beaches,
With blissful looks of love that swim
Through long luxurious reaches!
They watch us now from out the West,
But all too proud to sorrow
For us who rest on Victory's breast,
Or wear her wreath to-morrow.
Now, Soldiers, up to conquest stride,
Let not one spirit falter:
For Victory is your plighted Bride,
The breach your solemn altar!
Through all this bloody Cemet'ry
Behold what seed lies sleeping;
God! but thy sun should stand while we
Our harvest-field are reaping!
Let not one spirit falter:
For Victory is your plighted Bride,
The breach your solemn altar!
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Behold what seed lies sleeping;
God! but thy sun should stand while we
Our harvest-field are reaping!
Now, Sailors, fight your Ships to-day
As Grenville fought the Spaniard!
If Battle's bloodiest game they play,
Have at them grip-and-poniard.
One thrilling shout for England, Ho!
Then, naked for the fight, men,
Dash in like fire upon the foe,
And God defend the Right, men!
As Grenville fought the Spaniard!
If Battle's bloodiest game they play,
Have at them grip-and-poniard.
One thrilling shout for England, Ho!
Then, naked for the fight, men,
Dash in like fire upon the foe,
And God defend the Right, men!
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