Kind hearts beat fast, and light feet gently tread
The hallowed ground beneath a sacred air.
The orator, with golden words of praise
Upon his lips, inspires the listening throng.
The poet bows his silver locks, and lays
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On the loved shrine his choicest gift of song.
Howe'er debased by mean and paltry arts,
Men still will give the patriot soul his meed.
For evermore there lives in human hearts
A sympathy that shares each noble deed.
O blessed souls, if ye to-day can turn
Your eyes from yonder heavens unto the sod
Your blood has hallowed, how your thoughts must burn
With gratitude to Him who led you, God!
Where once that blood was shed, the blossoms spring
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Tug-of-War Team.
