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Where shall we seek for truth, honour, or worth?

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OH! he stands beneath the sun, that glorious Fated One

Like a martyr or conqueror, wearing

On his brow a mighty doom, be it glory, be it gloom,

The shadow of a crown it is bearing.

At his Cyclopean stroke the proud heart of man awoke.

Like a king from his lordly down-lying;

And whereso'er he trod, like the footstep of a God,

Was a trail of light the gloom outvying.

In his beauty and his youth, the Apostle of the Truth,

Goes he forth with the words of salvation,

And a noble madness falls on each spirit he enthralls,

As he chants his wild Pæans to the nation.

As a tempest in its force, as a torrent in its course,

So his words fiercely sweep all before them,

And they smite like two-edged swords, those undaunted thunder-words,

On all hearts, as tho' angels did implore them.

See our pale cheeks how they flush, as the noble visions rush

On our soul's most dark desolation,

And the glorious lyric words, Right, Freedom, and our Swords!