  One voice, one people,—one in heart And soul, and feeling, and desire! Relight the smouldering martial fire, Sound the mute trumpet, strike the lyre. The hero-deed cannot expire; The dead still play their part. Raise high the monumental stone! A nation’s fealty is theirs, And we are the rejoicing heirs, The honored sons of sires whose cares We take upon us unawares, As freely as our own. We boast not of the victory, But render homage, deep and just, To his—to their—immortal dust, Who proved so worthy of their trust, No lofty pile nor sculptured bust Can herald their degree. No tongue can blazon forth their fame— The cheers that stir the sacred hill Are but mere promptings of the will That conquered then, that conquers still; And generations yet shall thrill At Brock’s remembered name. |
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