With statelier honours still, in Time's slow round,
Shall this sepulchral eminence be crown'd;
Where generations long to come shall hail
The growth of centuries waving in the gale,
A forest landmark, on the mountain's head,
Standing betwixt the living and the dead;
Nor, while your language lasts, shall travellers cease
To say, at sight of your memorial, "Peace!"
Your voice of silence answering from the sod,
"Whoe'er thou art, prepare to meet thy God!"