Save one more billow on the sea of graves; One joyaunt voice the fewer in life's throng; One hand the less to help the world along; One Hero more 'mongst earth's departed Braves.
For who that in life's battle-field could fight As he has fought, whose painless victories Transcended war's heroic chivalries, Could in his country's heart claim nobler height?
None may the niche of glory haplier grace, None may the crown of greatness proudlier wear, Than he upon whose tomb the silent tear Falls slowly down from many a drooping face.
Faces whose hard and rugged outlines show Life's daily struggle--O, how bravely fought! Faces to which the only gladness brought Came from the Friend who yonder lieth low.
Let us in mournful retrospect commune O'er what that still cold heart and brain have won: A hymn of life in lispings first begun, Ending in harmony's most perfect tune.
As comes the sun from out the darkling-night, And strikes, as did the patriarch of old, Life's barren rocks, which flush with green and gold, And pour out waters glad with living light,
So, crowned with blessings, in the far-off days, Like Midas, Mynwy's monarch touched the earth, Wrought golden plenty where once reigned a dearth, And raised an empire he alone could raise.
No service his, of slavery, to bind With tyrant fancy vassals to his will: All hearts beat quick with sympathetic thrill For one who loved the humblest of their kind.
His kingdom rang with fealty from the free-- Such blessed faith as faith itself ensures. His reign alone that sway which e'er secures A subject's true and trustful sympathy.
So love men's love begat in bounteous flow; It blossomed round his path as flowers bloom, Filling his life with such a rare perfume Of heart's devotion kings can seldom know.
His master-mind, with almost boundless reach, Planned work so vast that mankind, wondering still, Could scarcely compass his gigantic will Which grasped great things as ocean clasps the beach.
His home of homes was where the Cyclops forged Their bolts, as though for Jove to hold his own: His fondest study where, through ages grown, The silent ores old Cambria's mountains gorged.
Mammoth machines that, with incessant whirl, Rolled onward ever on their ponderous way: Gigantic marvels, deafening in their play, And swift, industrious, never-ending swirl.