 | My Lyrical Life |  |
THE MARTYRS' HILL.
Sitting in her sorrow lone,
Still our Mother makes her moan
For the Lost; and to the Martyrs' Hill her thoughts in mourning go.
O, that desert of the Dead,
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow!
Still our Mother makes her moan
For the Lost; and to the Martyrs' Hill her thoughts in mourning go.
O, that desert of the Dead,
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow!
Into glory had they rode
When the tide of triumph flowed,
Not a tear would we shed for the heroes lying low.
But our hearts break for the Dead,
In their desolate Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow.
When the tide of triumph flowed,
Not a tear would we shed for the heroes lying low.
But our hearts break for the Dead,
In their desolate Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow.
Praying breath rose white in air,
Eyes were set in a stern stare,
Hands were stretched for help that came not as they sank in silence low:
Our dear, heroic Dead,
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow.
Eyes were set in a stern stare,
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Our dear, heroic Dead,
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow.
Now the winter snows are gone,
And Earth smiles as though the Dawn
Had come up from it in flowers—such a light of grace doth glow
All about our darkened Dead,
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow.
And Earth smiles as though the Dawn
Had come up from it in flowers—such a light of grace doth glow
All about our darkened Dead,
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow.
But, never, never more,
Comes the Spring that will restore
To their own love, their own land, the lost ones lying low
On the Martyrs' Hill, our Dead
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow.
Comes the Spring that will restore
To their own love, their own land, the lost ones lying low
On the Martyrs' Hill, our Dead
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow.
Till with victory God replies,
Shall our Battle storm the skies,
And our living soldiers think, as they grapple with the foe,
Of our perished, peerless Dead,
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow.
Shall our Battle storm the skies,
And our living soldiers think, as they grapple with the foe,
Of our perished, peerless Dead,
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of winter snow.
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Through a hundred battles red,
Shall their fame float overhead;
Into everlasting flowers shall their martyr memories blow.
So we crown our glorious Dead,
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of Winter snow.
Shall their fame float overhead;
Into everlasting flowers shall their martyr memories blow.
So we crown our glorious Dead,
Who lay down in their Death-Bed,
With their Winding-sheet and Wreath of Winter snow.
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