They reck not where their scattered ashes rest
Who speed to the reunion of the blest;
As eaglets soaring to the gates of light
Spurn the dull shells that long confined their flight.
For you the amaranthine wreath we twine,
Raise the high song, and pour the ruddy wine;
For you the rhythmic beat of martial feet,
As the long lines go swaying down the street;
For you the plaintive reed’s subduing moan
Commingles with the hautboy’s rapturous tone,