Carmen Triumphale
Go forth and bid the land rejoice, Yet not too gladly, O my song! Breathe softly, as if mirth would wrong The solemn rapture of thy voice. Be nothing lightly done or said This happy day! Our joy should flow Accordant with the lofty woe That wails above the noble dead. Let him whose brow and breast were calm While yet the battle lay with God, Look down upon the crimson sod And gravely wear his mournful palm; And him, whose heart still weak from fear Beats all too gayly for the time, Know that intemperate glee is crime While one dead hero claims a tear. Yet go thou forth, my song! and thrill, With sober joy, the troubled days; A nation's hymn of grateful praise May not be hushed for private ill. Our foes are fallen! Flash, ye wires! The mighty tidings far and nigh! Ye cities! write them on the sky In purple and in emerald fires! They came with many a haughty boast; Their threats were heard on every breeze; They darkened half the neighboring seas; And swooped like vultures on the coast. False recreants in all knightly strife, Their way was wet with woman's tears; Behind them flamed the toil of years, And bloodshed stained the sheaves of life. They fought as tyrants fight, or slaves; God gave the dastards to our hands; Their bones are bleaching on the sands, Or mouldering slow in shallow graves. What though we hear about our path The heavens with howls of vengeance rent? The venom of their hate is spent; We need not heed their fangless wrath. Meantime the stream they strove to chain Now drinks a thousand springs, and sweeps With broadening breast, and mightier deeps, And rushes onward to the main; While down the swelling current glides Our Ship of State before the blast, With streamers poured from every mast, Her thunders roaring from her sides. Lord! bid the frenzied tempest cease, Hang out thy rainbow on the sea! Laugh round her, waves! in silver glee, And speed her to the port of peace!
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