ENGLAND'S DEAD.
197
But let the floods rush on!
Let the arrow's flight be sped!
Why should they reck whose task is done?
—There slumber England's dead.
The mountain storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs thro' the sky,
Like rose-leaves on the breeze.
But let the storm rage on!
Let the fresh wreaths be shed!
For the Roncesvalles' field is won—
—There slumber England's dead.
On the frozen deep's repose,
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern night-clouds lower.
