Where martial splendour sinks to gruesome gloom,

And pride of conquest turns to dread of doom;

Where order’d ranks in maim’d confusion lie

Till stench and suff’ring shock the pitying sky;

Where bestial figures sprawl, that once were man,

And vermin finish what the shells began;

’Tis there you shine, a heav’n-descended train,

To ease the anguish and to purge the pain.

Oh, for a lyre that might express in song

A tribute worthy of your saintly throng!

Oh, for a pen whose Attic skill might trace

The deathless glories of your gentle race!

But what mere mortal justly could record

Your Christ-like labour, and your scant reward?

The warrior, moulded of a stouter clay,

In song and jest awaits the fatal day;

Fir’d with excitement, to his fate resign’d,

No fears distract, nor sights unnerve his mind.

His miry trench with stoic calm he bears,

Nor counts disease or death among his cares;

His surging ranks, resistless as machines,

March on, and grow accustom’d to the scenes.

Such are our heroes, honour’d, lov’d, and sung

Where’er the folds of Freedom’s flag are flung:

If theirs be valour, unafraid and true,

What may we say, intrepid fair, of you?

You, whose frail lives a tender care hath bless’d;

Whose fine-wrought fancies ill hath ne’er oppress’d;

Whose shielded youth no cruel strife hath known;

O’er whose calm seas no vexing gales have blown.

What courage spurs you, that with such glad haste

You quit your ease for Europe’s war-torn waste?

’Tis yours the fields of slaughter to assuage,

And scatter mercy o’er the realms of rage;

Relieve the dying hero’s burning drouth,

And drag the wounded from the cannon’s mouth;

Toil where the bombs in wild profusion soar,

Where shrapnel shrieks and lethal vapours pour;

Sustain each horror of the martial state,

Nor fear to meet the soldier’s darkest fate;

All this is yours, and yours alone from choice—

Can fitting praise be sung by mortal voice?

Ye nymphs of Helicon! immortal Nine,

Contrive a song of nobler key than mine!

Such heights of spirit needs must gain their praise

From godlike singers and Aonian lays:

Our lowlier band the heav’nly splendour see,

But stand abash’d before divinity!

We can but dumbly scan th’ undaunted fair

Who brave the shell-scarr’d plain and noisome air;

We can but pause, and rev’rently admire

The valiant train, whom no fierce hopes inspire:

From maids like these, perchance our fathers drew

Britannia’s fabled features, dear to view;

Or proud Columbia’s form, that rules the West,

Or gracious Liberty, by millions blest.

This all may swear, that ev’ry fearless face

Glows brightly with a more than mortal grace;

That ev’ry heart with holy purpose burns;

That ev’ry soul for sacred service yearns:

Reign, lofty spirits, o’er the lab’ring lands

Where Saxons face the foe with new-clasp’d hands!