I cannot spare the luxury of believing that all things beautiful are what they seem.

There is an evening twilight of the heart, When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest.

But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be.

They love their land, because it is their own, And scorn to give aught other reason why; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it kindness to his majesty.

Strike--for your altars and your fires; Strike--for the green graves of your sires. God--and your native land!

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be.