Shouts of triumph from our heroes by the

Euxine's trembling shore,

Shrieks of sorrow from our homesteads — they

are mingling evermore.

Gallant hearts! three glorious battles on their

banners gleam in gold —

How the grand old British valour mounted as

the war-drums rolled!

Up the quaking heights of Alma — up the steeps

of glory higher,

Through the clouds of cannon-thunder and the

blinding rush of fire,

Rose the living storm of vengeance, and the

tyrant's legions fled —

Bumed the meteor flag of England where the

Russian eagle bled.

Then the shout of Victory swelled; and the

dying where they lay,

Struggling with the strong death-shadows,

caught the cheer and passed away.

Freedom, weeping in the valleys of the lone

Hungarian land,

Mourning o'er the graves of martyrs with the

cypress in her hand,

Heard the voices of the victors, heard the dead

hearts throb below,

Heard the throne of despots tremble, and she

crushed her climbing woe.

Dashed aside her wreath of cypress, smiled with

rapture up to God,

And up-rising like an eagle, soared on all the

winds abroad!

Dreamed the Czar, the daring spirit of our

Fatherland was fled?

Dreamed he Saxon hearts wore craven, and old

Scotland's valour dead ?

Grinned the murderer of the Magyar with a

despot's ghastly smile,

Seeing in his fancy Freedom burning on her

funeral pile?

Sang his heart a loud Te Deum? Shone his

cold blue eye with light?

Saw he England panting, trembling in the

shadow of his might?

Ye awoke him, brother Britons! ye who charged

in Glory's van

From the heights of Balaklava, in the gorge of

Inkermann!

Ye awoke him with your thunder and the rushing

shock of steeds,

With the flashing of your fearless steel and your

heroic deeds.

God! Methinks the mailed arch-angels gazed

below with bated breath

When that little band of heroes, dashing down

the vale of death,

Clove the Russian ranks asunder, as the lightning

cleaves the cloud,

Flung their hearts on Freedom's altar, grasping

glory for a shroud!

And methinks the eagle spirits of our country's

dead were there, ,

Hanging o'er the reeling conflict, wrestling for

the Right in prayer.

Tremble, Vampyre of the nations! battening on

our bravest blood!

Hear ye not the leagued world rousing, trampling

onwards like a flood?

Hell beneath is moved to meet thee, and the

despots of thy line,

Wait to give thee ghastly welcome, striking

bloody.hands in thine!

Who pleads Peace? We cry for vengeance, and

that cry goes up to God

From thc grave of murdored Poland, and the

Magyar's bleeding sod.

Peace is treason, O my brothers! while the

crowned blasphemer stands,

While the cry of blood is rising from the

crushed and tortured lands.

While the bravest heart is breaking, while the

buming tear-drops flow,

And grim Murder, crowned with laurel, sits and

smiles on human woe.

We have listened to the traitor — we have sung

the dawn of light,

When the daggers of assassins struck at Freedom

in the night;

Wait no longer on the watch-towers — weep not

o'er the dead past's grave —

Cleave the rocky hearts of tyrants! strlke the

fetters from the slave!

Oh, the earth will heave with glory, peace will

sing her triumph-song.

When the battle-trumpet peals no more and

Right has conquered Wrong!