THY DAYS ARE DONE. I. THY DAYS ARE DONE, thy fame begun; Thy country's strains record The triumphs of her chosen Son, The slaughters of his sword! The deeds he did, the fields he won, The freedom he restored! II. Though thou art fall'n, while we are free Thou shalt not taste of death! The generous blood that flowed from thee Disdain'd to sink beneath : Within our veins its currents be, Thy spirit on our breath! III. Thy name, our charging hosts along, Shall be the battle-word! Thy fall, the theme of choral song From virgin voices poured! To weep would do thy glory wrong; Thou shalt not be deplored. IT IS THE HOUR. IT IS THE HOUR when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard ; It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whispered word; And gentle winds and waters near |