XVII
Awake, awake! how loud the stormy morning
Calls up to life the nation's resting round;
Arise, arise! it is the voice of mourning
That breaks our slumber with so wild a sound.
The voice of mourning; listen to its pealing;
That shout of triumph drowns the sigh of woe;
Each tortured heart forgets its wonted feeling,
Each faded cheek resumes its long lost glow.
Our souls are full of gladness; God has given
Our arms to victory, our foes to death;
The crimson ensign waves its sheet in heaven,
The sea-green standard lies in dust beneath.
Patriots, the stain is on your country's glory;
Soldiers, preserve that glory bright and free;
Let Almedore in peace and battle gory
Be still another name for victory.
December 1837.
This poem in the original manuscript is entitled 'Song by Julius Angora.'
