On the deathless page, truths half so sage,
As he wrote down for men.
And had he not high honor,—
The hill-side for his pall;
To lie in state, while angels wait,
With stars for tapers tall;
And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,
Over his bier to wave;
And God’s own hand, in that lonely land,
To lay him in the grave;—