Look up, desponding hearts! See, Morning sallies

From out her tents behind the screening hill,

And speeds her glittering lances on the valleys

Where hostile mists, unconscious, slumber still.

Roused from their vain security, they clamber

Up the far slopes and seek the open sky,

Till hill and dale are tinged with gold and amber,

The spoils of victory from those that fly.

Thus when, as though surrendered to the Night,

Men’s spirits sleep, shall wakeful Freedom burst

With piercing ray even here, and flood with light

Each skulking nook by loutish custom curst;

But in the glow of victory will spare,

Turning all ill to good, all foul to fair.

Alfred Austin
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