Song II
Come
to
the
banquet
—
triumph
in
your
songs!
Strike
up
the
chords
—
and
sing
of
Victory!
The
oppressed
have
risen
to
redress
their
wrongs;
The
Tyrants
are
o'erthrown;
the
Land
is
free!
The
Land
is
free!
Aye,
shout
it
forth
once
more;
Is
she
not
red
with
her
oppressors'
gore?
We
are
her
champions
—
shall
we
not
rejoice?
Are
not
the
tyrants'
broad
domains
our
own?
Then
wherefore
triumph
with
a
faltering
voice;
And
talk
of
freedom
in
a
doubtful
tone?
Have
we
not
longed
through
life
the
reign
to
see
Of
Justice,
linked
with
Glorious
Liberty?
Shout
you
that
will,
and
you
that
can
rejoice
To
revel
in
the
riches
of
your
foes.
In
praise
of
deadly
vengeance
lift
you
voice,
Gloat
o'er
your
tyrants'
blood,
you
victims'
woes.
I'd
rather
listen
to
the
skylarks'
songs,
And
think
on
Gondal's,
and
my
Father's
wrongs.
It
may
be
pleasant,
to
recall
the
death
Of
those
beneath
whose
sheltering
roof
you
lie;
But
I
would
rather
press
the
mountain
heath,
With
naught
to
shield
me
from
the
starry
sky,
And
dream
of
yet
untasted
victory
—
A
distant
hope
—
and
feel
that
I
am
free!
O
happy
life!
To
range
the
mountains
wild,
The
waving
woods
—
or
Ocean's
heaving
breast,
With
limbs
unfettered,
conscience
undefiled,
And
choosing
where
to
wander,
where
to
rest!
Hunted,
oppressed,
but
ever
strong
to
cope
—
With
toils,
and
perils
—
ever
full
of
hope!
'Our
flower
is
budding'
—
When
that
word
was
heard
On
desert
shore,
or
breezy
mountain's
brow,
Wherever
said
—
what
glorious
thoughts
it
stirred!
'Twas
budding
then
—
Say
has
it
blossomed
now?
Is
this
the
end
we
struggled
to
obtain?
O
for
the
wandering
Outlaw's
life
again!
