Page:National Lyrics.pdf/34

18

Who murmured of the dead? Hush, boding voice! We know That many a shining head Lies in its glory low.

Breathe not those names to-day! They shall have their praise e'er long, And a power all hearts to sway, In ever-burning song.

But now shed flowers, pour wine, To hail the conquerors home! Bring wreaths for every shrine— Io! they come, they come!