Or the low, mysterious voices
Attuned to their solemn chime!
For the hearts of our noble martyrs
Are the springs of its rich supply;
And those deeply mystic murmurs
Echo their dying cry!

They bid us uplift our banner
Once more in the name of God;
And press to the goal of Freedom
By the paths our Fathers trod:
_They_ passed o'er their dying brothers;
From their pale lips caught the sigh--
The _flame_ of their hearts heroic,
From the flash of each closing eye!

Up! Up! for the time is pressing,
The red waves close around;--
They will lift us on their billows
If our hearts are faithful found!
They will lift us high--exultant,
And the craven world shall see
The Ark of a ransomed people
Afloat on the crimson sea!

Afloat, with her glorious banner--
The cross on its field of red,
Its stars, and its white folds waving
In triumph at her head;
Emblem of all that's sacred