Iv

By gracious slopes of fair green hills, In shadows cool and deep, Where floats the psalm of many rills, The noble elders sleep. But while their children's children last, While seed from seedling springs, The print and perfume of their past Will be as deathless things.

Their voices are with vanished years, With other days and hours; Their homes are sanctified by tears-- They sleep amongst the flowers. They do not walk by street or stream, Or tread by grove or shore, But, in the nation's highest dream, They shine for evermore.