Who left so pure, its heritage of fame!
Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror’s dust,
Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the just.
All else shall pass away!—the thrones of kings,
The very traces of their tombs depart;
But number not with perishable things
The holy records Virtue leaves the heart,
Heir-looms from race to race! And oh! in days
When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest,
When our sons learn “as household words” thy praise,