O'er the Dale then was litten the Candle of Day,
Night-sorrow was smitten, and gloom fled away.
How the grief-shackles sunder! How many to morn
Shall awaken and wonder how gladness was born!
O wont unto sorrow, how sweet unto you
Shall be pondering to-morrow what deed is to do!
Fell many a man
'Neath the edges wan,
In the heat of the play
That fashioned the day.
Praise all ye then
The death of men,
And the gift of the aid
Of the unafraid!
O strong are the living men mighty to save,
And good is their giving, and gifts that we have!
But the dead, they that gave us once, never again;
Long and long shall they save us sore trouble and pain.
O Banner above us, O God of the strong,
Love them as ye love us that bore down our wrong!
So they sang in the Hall; and there was many a man wept, as the song
ended, for those that should never see the good days of the Dale, and
all the joy that was to be; and men swore, by all that they loved,
that they would never forget those that had fallen in the Winning of
Silver-dale; and that when each year the Cups of Memory went round,
they should be no mere names to them, but the very men whom they had
known and loved.
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