240
          Salute the sacred dead,
    Who went, and who return not,—­Say not so! 
    ’Tis not the grapes of Canaan that repay,
    But the high faith that failed not by the way;
    Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave; 245
    No ban of endless night exiles the brave: 
          And to the saner mind
    We rather seem the dead that stayed behind. 
    Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow! 
    For never shall their aureoled presence lack:  250
    I see them muster in a gleaming row,
    With ever-youthful brows that nobler show;
    We find in our dull road their shining track;
          In every nobler mood
    We feel the orient of their spirit glow, 255
    Part of our life’s unalterable good,
    Of all our saintlier aspiration;
          They come transfigured back,
    Secure from change in their high-hearted ways,
    Beautiful evermore, and with the rays 260
    Of morn on their white Shields of Expectation!

IX

          Who now shall sneer? 
      Who dare again to say we trace
      Our lines to a plebeian race? 
          Roundhead and Cavalier! 265
    Dreams are those names erewhile in battle loud;
    Forceless as is the shadow of a cloud,
          They live but in the ear: 
    That is best blood that hath most iron, in ’t,
    To edge resolve with, pouring without stint 270
          For what makes manhood dear. 
          Tell us not of Plantagenets,
    Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin bloods crawl
    Down from some victor in a border-brawl! 
          How poor their outworn coronets, 275
    Matched with one leaf of that plain civic wreath
    Our brave for honor’s blazon shall bequeath,
      Through whose desert a rescued Nation sets
    Her heel on treason, and the trumpet hears
    Shout victory, tingling Europe’s sullen ears 280
      With vain resentments and more vain regrets!

X

          Not in anger, not in pride,
          Pure from passion’s mixture rude,
          Ever to base earth allied,
          But with far-heard gratitude, 285
          Still with heart and voice renewed,
      To heroes living and dear martyrs dead,
    The strain should close that consecrates our brave. 
      Lift the heart and lift the head! 
          Lofty be its mood and grave, 290
          Not without a martial ring,
          Not without a prouder tread
          And a peal of exultation: 
          Little right has he to sing