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But let the storm rage on! Let the forest-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, To chain her with their power.

But let the ice drift on! Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done, There slumber England's dead.

The warlike of the isles, The men of field and wave! Are not the rocks their funeral piles, The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep, Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.