Hearts and Swords

The metal of they treasure, Warrior Land

Is forged today as it was forged of old

Hot on the anvil; but his blood goes cold

And his hair crisps who takes it in his hand.

Costlier treasure, too, than swords of steel,

Land of the Rising Sun is ever thine,

Treasure of hearts that glow with the divine

Ardour a patriot alone can feel.

Treading white swords beneath their eager feet

Thy sons press storming onward, while the light

That plays about their whirling blades doth fright

The trembling mountains. These find battle sweet.

These find fierce joy in life's extremity,

Land of the Gods, far rather would they sheathe

Their falchions in their own red hearth than breathe

One hour dishonoured, -- or dishonour Thee.