Seeing the glimmer of thy stone,
They a shaft shall deem it, thrown
From a dawn beyond the deep,
And so haste with thee to keep
Angelic brotherhood!
O herald, gone before,
For these throw wide the door,
Make room, make room!

Now, music, cease,
And bitter brazen trumpets hold your peace!
Now, while the dumb, white air
Draws from our still despair
A purer prayer.
Then must the sod
Fulfill its humble share,
Meek-folded o'er his breast,
Here where he lies amongst the waiting trees:
They shall break bud when warm winds from the west
And southern breezes come to touch the place
Made precious by this grace
Of memory dear to God.

We leave him where the granite Lion lies
And gazes toward the East, with woman's eyes
That read the riddle of the undying sun,
Bearing within her breast the stony germ
Of continents, but--lasting no less firm--
The memory of those marvels done,
The battles fought, the words that wrought