Far in the young world’s misty dawn?
Or to teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught?
Mother Earth, are the heroes gone?
“Gone? In a grander form they rise.
Dead? We may clasp their hands in ours,
And catch the light of their clearer eyes,
And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers.
Wherever a noble deed is done,
’Tis the pulse of a hero’s heart is stirred;
Wherever the Right has a triumph won,