Awake, awake! how loud the stormy morning
⁠Calls up to life the nation's resting round;
Arise, arise! it is the voice of mourning
⁠That breaks our slumber with so wild a sound.

The voice of mourning; listen to its pealing;
⁠That shout of triumph drowns the sigh of woe;
Each tortured heart forgets its wonted feeling,
⁠Each faded cheek resumes its long lost glow.

Our souls are full of gladness; God has given
⁠Our arms to victory, our foes to death;
The crimson ensign waves its sheet in heaven,
⁠The sea-green standard lies in dust beneath.

Patriots, the stain is on your country's glory;
⁠Soldiers, preserve that glory bright and free;
Let Almedore in peace and battle gory
⁠Be still another name for victory.

December 1837.