Oh, Greenwood! loveliest spot for last repose,
When the stern pilgrimage of life is o’er,
Even thy dim outline through the haze is dear.
Onward, by Coney Island’s silvery reef,
To where, between its lowly valves of sand,
Opes the Highway of Nations. Through it flows
The commerce of the world. The Mother Realm
Sends on its tides her countless embassies;
Bright France invokes the potency of steam
To wing her message; from his ice-clad pines