SHOUT, for a mighty Victory is won! On British ground the Invaders are laid low; The breath of Heaven has drifted them like snow, And left them lying in the silent sun, Never to rise again! -- the work is done. Come forth, ye old men, now in peaceful show And greet your sons! drums beat and trumpets blow! Make merry, wives! ye little children, stun Your grandame's ears with pleasure of your noise! Clap, infants, clap your hands! Divine must be That triumph, when the very worst, the pain, And even the prospect of our brethren slain, Hath something in it which the heart enjoys: -- In glory will they sleep and endless sanctity. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THAT VAGRANT MISTRAL VEXING THE SUN: A FAR CRY by DARA WIER THE GROSS CLINIC by CAROL FROST THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE by AMELIA OPIE THE IDEA by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON PAN IN WALL STREET by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN GOD'S DETERMINATIONS: CHRIST'S REPLY by EDWARD TAYLOR |