All is over and done: Render thanks to the Giver, England, for thy son. 45 Let the bell be toll’d. Render thanks to the Giver, And render him to the mould. Under the cross of gold That shines over city and river, 50 There he shall rest for ever Among the wise and the bold. Let the bell be toll’d: And a reverent people behold The towering car, the sable steeds: 55 Bright let it be with its blazon’d deeds, Dark in its funeral fold. Let the bell be toll’d: And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll’d; And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll’d 60 Thro’ the dome of the golden cross; And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; He knew their voices of old. For many a time in many a clime His captain’s-ear has heard them boom 65 Bellowing victory, bellowing doom: When he with those deep voices wrought, Guarding realms and kings from shame; With those deep voices our dead captain taught The tyrant, and asserts his claim 70 In that dread sound to the great name, Which he has worn so pure of blame, In praise and in dispraise the same, A man of well-attemper’d frame. O civic muse, to such a name, 75 To such a name for ages long, To such a name, Preserve a broad approach of fame, And ever-ringing[1] avenues of song. VI. Who is he that cometh, like an honour’d guest, 80 With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest, With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest? Mighty Seaman, this is he Was great by land as thou by sea. Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, 85 The greatest sailor since our world began. Now, to the roll of muffled drums, To thee the greatest soldier comes; For this is he Was great by land as thou by sea; 90 His foes were thine; he kept us free; O give him welcome, this is he Worthy of our gorgeous rites, And worthy to be laid by thee; For this is England’s greatest son, 95 He that gain’d a hundred fights, Nor ever lost an English gun; This is he that far away Against the myriads of Assaye Clash’d with his fiery few and won; 100 And underneath another sun, Warring on a later day, Round affrighted Lisbon drew The treble works, the vast designs Of his labour’d rampart-lines, 105 Where he greatly stood at bay, Whence he issued forth anew, And ever great and greater grew Beating from the wasted vines Back to France her banded swarms, 110 Back to France with countless blows, Till o’er the hills her eagles flew Beyond the Pyrenean pines, Follow’d up in valley and glen With blare of bugle, clamour of men, 115 Roll of cannon and clash of arms, And England pouring on her foes. Such a war had such a close. Again their ravening eagle rose In anger, wheel’d on Europe-shadowing wings, 120