All gone! the wild beast's lair is trodden out

All gone! the wild beast's lair is trodden out; Proud temples stand in beauty there; Our children raise their merry shout, Where once the death-whoop vexed the air: The Pilgrim—seek yon ancient place of graves, Beneath that chapel's holy shade; Ask, where the breeze the long grass waves, Who, who within that spot are laid: The Patriot—go, to fame's proud mount repair, The tardy pile, slow rising there, With tongueless eloquence shall tell Of them who for their country fell.