SUNG BY MALE VOICES TO A NATIONAL AIR OF HOLLAND

ONCE more, ye sacred towers,

Your solemn dirges sound;

Strew, loving hands, the April flowers,

Once more to deck his mound.

A nation mourns its dead,

Its sorrowing voices one,

As Israel's monarch bowed his head

And cried, “My son! My son!”

Why mourn for him?— For him

The welcome angel came

Ere yet his eye with age was dim

Or bent his stately frame;

His weapon still was bright,

His shield was lifted high

To slay the wrong, to save the right,—

What happier hour to die?

Thou orderest all things well;

Thy servant's work was done;

He lived to hear Oppression's knell,

The shouts for Freedom won.

Hark!! from the opening skies

The anthem's echoing swell,—

“O mourning Land, lift up thine eyes!

God reigneth. All is well!”