Whose sable pall, a banner waves,
Whose canopy a minster’s dome,—
What heart reposeth 'neath its shade
Whose ashes thus enshrined lie?
Ask, of the nations gathered round,
For each can make reply!
The sunny south hath heard his voice,
The frigid north his face hath seen,
The patriarch east, his foot hath trod
The barbarous west—his own hath been,