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THE MARCH OF GLORY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

THE MARCH OF GLORY

I hear the nations march,
As sweeping autumn rain,
By laurel-garnished arch,
And trophies of the slain.
To music proud and high,
By glory led,
The stern-eyed ranks go by,
To her battle-fields of dead.
Her heroes and her soldiers rush to die
Madly upon the spears with martial ecstasy.
The clash of battles psalm
Dilates their veins to glow;
As tempest rocks the calm
Grey surge to fleece of snow.
With iron in each palm,
Invincible they go.
I hear the nations march.
Their ample ensign's fold,
Spread as an eagle's wing,
Flaps out in heavy gold:

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O'er sheeted targe and shield
The banners gaily swing:
On to their latest field
The advancing bugles ring.
Moving to victory with solemn voice,
With timbrels, and with drum-beat, and the noise
Of myriads: each man listens
For the laughter of her joys,
To each man glistens
The glitter of her eyes,
The phantom Glory leads the proud array,
They follow, as she flies,
And without reck or fears
Right on the vale of tears
Go marching gay.
Love's music mingles with the martial hymn,
And all the pealing clarions breathe of him,
The mighty voice, that recks not time or years,—
Love that no Death can dim,
Love that Death makes complete,
Whose glory is immense,
Whose laughter is passing sweet,
Beyond the reach of sense.
The laughter of one, who kisses well. The laugh
Of a great king, who mows his foes as chaff,
The laugh of the feaster, who sings in his pleasure.
The laugh of the miser, arm-deep in his treasure.
The laugh of the lark, when the young beam breaks
Its cloudy cover.
The laugh of the dreaming girl who wakes
And finds her lover.
Joy and Love and Triumph in their marching
Thou shalt hear, as sounds
Of tempest thro' the giant pinewood searching,
When the great clarion of the gale resounds.
March on with throbbing drums and bugle sigh,
Let the flute peal, the royal trumpet swell;
Hail! we salute thee, Queen, about to die:
Hail, Glory, and farewell!