Classic Poem

Ay, leave him alone to sleep forever,
Till the strong archangel calls for the dead,
By the verdant bank of that rushing river,
Where first they pillowed his mighty head!

Lowly may be the turf that covers
The sacred grave of his last repose;
But oh! there's a glory around it hovers,
Broad as the day-break, and bright as its close.

Though marble pillars were reared above him,
Temples and obelisks rich and rare, —
Better he dwells in the hearts that love him,
Cold and lone as he slumbers there.

Why should ye gather with choral numbers?
Why should your thronging thousands come?
Who will dare to invade his slumbers,
Or take him away from his narrow home?

Well he sleeps, in the majesty,
Silent and stern, of awful death!
And he who visits him there should be
Alone with God and his own hushed breath!

Revel and pomp would profane his ashes,
And may never a sound be murmured there,
But the glorious river's that by him dashes,
And the pilgrim's voice in his heart-felt prayer!

But leave him alone! To sleep forever, —
Till the trump, that awakens the countless dead,
By the verdant bank of that rushing river,
Where first they pillowed his mighty head!