Before the throne the spirits of the slain
With a loud voice importunately cried,
'O Lord of Hosts, whose name be glorified,
Scarce may the line one onslaught more sustain
Wanting our help. Let it not be in vain,
Not all in vain, O God, that we have died.'
And smiling on them our good Lord replied,
'Begone then, foolish ones, and fight again.'
Our eyes were holden, that we saw them not;
Disheartened foes beheld - our prisoners said -
Behind us massed, a mighty host indeed,
Where no host was. On comrades unforgot
We thought, and knew that all those valiant dead
Forwent their rest to save us at our need.