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,