Across his breast will roll along.
But, had the Grecian chisel wrought,
No pile above their graves,
Say, could ye point out, save in thought,
Their own, from tombs of slaves?
A crumbling column, only shows
Where Greece's mighty dead repose.
But tombs of men, more wise, more free,
Amid a brighter day,
Are like the mounds ye scarcely see,