O, IT is great for our country to die, where ranks are
contending!
Bright is the wreath of our fame; glory
awaits us for aye,
Glory, that never is dim, shining on
with light never ending,
Glory that never shall fade,
never, O never, away!
O, it is sweet for our country
to die! How softly reposes
Warrior youth on his bier, wet
by the tears of his love,
Wet by a mother's warm tears.
They crown him with garlands of roses,
Weep, and then
joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above.
Not to
the shades shall the youth descend, who for country hath
perished;
Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there
with her smile;
There, at the banquet divine, the patriot
spirit is cherished;
Gods love the young who ascend pure
from the funeral pile.
Not to Elysian fields, by the
still, oblivious river;
Not to the isles of the blest,
over the blue, rolling sea;
But on Olympian heights shall
dwell the devoted forever;
There shall assemble the good,
there the wise, valiant, and free.
O, then, how great
for our country to die, in the front rank to perish,
Firm
with our breast to the foe, victory's shout in our ear!
Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our memory
cherish;
We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the
sweet music to hear. |
