1   Thy days are done—thy fame begun—      Thy country’s strains record   The triumphs of her chosen Son—      The slaughter of his sword—   The deeds he did—the fields he won—      The freedom he restored! 2   Though thou art fall’n—while we are free      Thou shalt not taste of death—   The generous blood that flow’d from thee      Disdain’d to sink beneath:   Within our veins its currents be—      Thy spirit on our breath! 3   Thy name—our charging hosts along,      Shall be the battle-word—   Thy fall—the theme of choral song      From virgin voices pour’d,   To weep—would do thy glory wrong—      Thou shalt not be deplored!