September 20, 1854

Our old War-banners on the wind Were waving merrily o'er them; The hope of half the world behind— The sullen Foe before them! They trod their march of battle, bold As death-devoted freemen; Like those Three Hundred Greeks of old, Or Rome's immortal Three Men. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow. But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

With towering heart and lightsome feet They went to their high places; The fiery valour at white heat Was kindled in their faces! Magnificent in battle-robe, And radiant, as from star-lands, That spirit shone which girds our globe With glory, as with garlands! Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

They saw the Angel Iris o'er Their deluge of grim fire; And with their life's last tide they bore The Ark of Freedom higher! And grander 'tis i' the dash of death To ride on battle's billows, When Victory's kisses take the breath, Than sink on balmiest pillows. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

Brave hearts, with noble feelings flushed; In valour's ruddy riot But yesterday! how are ye hushed Beneath the smile of quiet! For us they poured their blood like wine, From life's ripe-gathered clusters; And far through History's night shall shine Their deeds with starriest lustres. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

We laid them not in churchyard home, Beneath our darling daisies: Where to their grave-mounds Love might come, And sit and sing their praises. But soothly sweet shall be their rest Where Victory's hands have crowned them To Earth our Mother's bosom pressed, And Heaven's arms around them. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

Yes, there they lie 'neath Alma's sod, On pillows dark and gory— As brave a host as ever trod Old England's path to glory. With head to home and face to sky, And feet the tyrant spurning, So grand they look, so proud they lie, We weep for glorious yearning. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

They in life's outer circle sleep, As each in death stood sentry! And like our England's dead still keep Their watch for kin and country. Up Alma, in their red footfalls, Comes Freedom's dawn victorious, Such graves are courts to festal halls! They banquet with the Glorious. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

Our Chiefs who matched the men of yore, And bore our shield's great burden, The nameless Heroes of the Poor, They all shall have their guerdon. In silent eloquence, each life The Earth holds up to heaven, And Britain gives for child and wife As those brave hearts have given. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?

The Spirits of our Fathers still Stand up in battle by us, And, in our need, on Alma hill, The Lord of Hosts was nigh us. Let Joy or Sorrow brim our cup, 'Tis an exultant story, How England's Chosen Ones went up Red Alma's hill to glory. Ah, Victory! joyful Victory! Like Love, thou bringest sorrow; But, O! for such an hour with thee, Who would not die to-morrow?