The hands above his grave united,—

The words of men whose lips he loosed,

Whose cross he bore, whose wrongs he righted,—

Could he but know, and rest with this!

Yet stay, through Death’s low-lying hollow,

His one last foe’s insatiate hiss

On that benignant shade would follow!

Peace! while we shroud this man of men

Let no unhallowed word be spoken!

He will not answer thee again,