On whom is not yet shown—yet sure its folds
Are buried not—its rich and loving folds
Shall lay some blessed spell
On him who most his noble spirit holds.
Great chieftain! rest!
Our hearts shall go as pilgrims to thy tomb;
Our spirits mourn and bless thy martyr tomb;
We deem thy lot is blest;
Our love shall rob our sorrow of its gloom.
All coming time