SEPULTURE — BOSTON, AUGUST 13, 1890

Dead? this peerless man of men —

Patriot, Poet, Citizen!—

Dead? and ye weep where he lies

Mute, with folded eyes!

Courage! All his tears are done;

Mark him, dauntless, face the sun!

He hath led you.— Still, as true,

He is leading you.

Folded eyes and folded hands

Typify divine commands

He is hearkening to, intent

Beyond wonderment.

‘ Tis promotion that has come

Thus upon him. Stricken dumb

Be your moanings dolorous!

God knows what He does.

Rather as your chief, aspire!—

Rise and seize his toppling lyre,

And sing Freedom, Home, and Love,

And the rights thereof!

Ere in selfish grief ye sink,

Come! catch rapturous breath and think —

Think what sweep of wing hath he,

Loosed in endless liberty.