The Omega of the sainted dead;

’Tis written where the pencill’d flowers

Their tablet to the desert show,

And where the mountain’s rocky towers

Frown darkly on the vale below;

Where roll the wondrous orbs on high,

In glorious order strong and fair,

In every letter of the sky

That midnight graves—’tis there—’tis there!

It gleams on ocean’s wrinkled brow,