Luyện nghe bài hát Ichabod

(John Greenleaf & Lorne Entress)

So fallen, so lost, the withdrawn
Which he wore
The glory from his hair gone

Revile him not, the hath
A for all
And pitying tears, not and wrath
his fall

Oh dumb be stormy rage
he who might
Have up and led his age
Falls back in

Scorn, would the angels laugh to
A bright driven
Fiend-goaded the endless dark
From and heaven

Let not the land proud of him
him now
Nor brand with deeper his dim
Dishonored

But let its humbled sons
From sea to
A lament, as for the dead
In make

Of all we loved and
Naught save remains
A angel's pride of thought
Still in chains

All else is gone from those eyes
The soul has
When faith is lost honor dies
The man is

Then pay the reverence of old
To his dead
Walk backward with gaze