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The very stones cry out, should ye be mute!

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WHAT though Freedom's hosts are parted,

Yet, beneath one banner fighting,

Strong in love and hero-hearted,

All, their Country's wrongs are righting

With the weapon that each deemeth best to strike oppression down

And one battle-cry resoundeth

From your ranks, success presaging;

And one heart within you boundeth

With a martyr's faith, engaging

Each to bind upon his forehead cypress wreath or laurel crown.

For a power without you urges

That can brook no more delaying,

And the heaving myriad surges,

To and fro in tumult swaying,

Threaten death to all who vainly would oppose them in their might.

Thrilling words, that burn like fire,

Ye have preached to hut and hovel,

Till they leap up in their ire

From the death-dust where they grovel,

These men of many sufferings, to die or win their right.

Pass the word that bands together—

Word of mystic conjuration—

And, as fire consumes the heather,

So the young hearts of the nation