Ring the bells, nor ring them slowly;
Toll them not,—the day is holy!
Golden-flooded noon is poured
In grand libation to the Lord.

No mourning mothers come to-day
Whose hopeless eyes forget to pray;
They each hold high the o'erflowing urn,
And bravely to God's altar turn.

Ye limners of the ancient saint!
To-day another virgin paint;
Where with the lily once she stood
Show now the new beatitude.

To-day a mother crowned with pain,
Of silver beauty beyond stain,
Clasping a flower for our land,
A sheathëd lily in her hand.

Each pointed leaf, with sword-like strength,
Guarding the flower throughout its length;
Each sword has won a sweet release
To the flower of beauty and of peace.

Ring the bells, nor ring them slowly,
To the Lord the day is holy;
To the young dead we consecrate
These lives that now we dedicate.