Since Pampeluna's glorious day
Won Loyola his fame.

What doth he at this lowly shrine?
What mean those prayers and sighs,
The tearful mist that dims the light
Of his flashing, eagle eyes?
They tell of life's vain pomps and pride
Esteemed as worthless dross,
For the dauntless soldier has become
The soldier of the Cross.

That sword, that once like lightning swept
Through ranks of foes hard pressed,
Now hangs beside Our Lady's shrine,
Henceforth in peace to rest,--
And soon the penitent's rough, dark robe,
His girdle and cowl of gloom,
Will replace the soldier's armor bright,
And his lofty, waving plume.

Well done, well done, thou warrior brave!
A noble choice is thine!
What are the laurels of earth beside
The joys of bliss divine?
And thou hast won, though seeking not,
The saint's undying fame--
Christ's Holy Church will evermore
Revere and bless thy name!