We praise, we praise the immortal dead,
Who strove beneath unheeding skies
For truth that raised the drooping head,
For light that gladdened weary eyes:
The martyr's cross, the warrior's sword,
How should they be of lesser worth
Than some unprofitable hoard
In ancient mines below the earth?
The song that one alone has sung,
The great uncompromising page,
Are these but glittering baubles, flung
About the world from age to age?
But ruin'd columns, wondrous tall,
Built in old time with labour sore,
The mighty deeds done once for all,
The voice heard once, and heard no more?
Rather they shine as doth the star
About the close of winter's day,
That cheers the traveller afar
And draws him on, and points the way.
——
We praise, we praise the immortal dead.
Do they not verily wait till we
Of the spoilt years unharvested
Be also of their company?