Again—the voice of God!
How breaks it round!
O'er consecrated sod,
With locks unbound,
Grief in her marble brow appears
And bows amid her veil—in tears!
That mandate from on high—
The clarion call,
That rung through earth and sky
His rayless fall,
In accents, "thou shalt die," again
Proclaims man's dream of years—how vain!
We veil not in its grave
It is not o'er the brave
We gather now!
But one who reach'd man's loftier fate.
Good without fault—and nobly great.
A sceptre was his own,
Drawn from the sky—
He fill'd a holier throne
He sat with deathless Justice crown'd,
While Truth, like sunlight, flash'd around!
His life to all the earth
Proud record bore,
Man yet might spring to birth,
With angel power!
His death, that as the "grass," to-day
Robes him in glory—and decay!
Oh! well, with spirit bow'd,
Above his bier
May a broad empire crowd,
With prayer and tear!
—His be its requiem—deep and far—
A nation's heart his sepulchre!