ii.
Within the lofty fane where sacred dust
Of heroes, saints, and singers lie in state,
His bones are laid. He died upon his knees,
Alone, and far from sympathy of man,
His head upon his buckler Bible laid;
Weary and spent, he answered to the call
When God said to his servant, "Come and rest."
And faithful hands then bore his body far
O'er swamp and desert-sand unto the sea;
And Heaven's winds swift wafted it across
The sea-fields to the far sea-girdled isle
Whose son he was; and Britain, with one voice
Of reverent mourning, voted him her first
And highest honour, and with sad acclaim
Bestowed a seat in the high pantheon
Of famed Westminster.
iii.
Though their dust apart
Is separated by the Lybian waste
That stretches from the Mountains of the Moon
To where old Atlas stands and tells the sky
The secrets of the desert and the lore
Of his wild daughter Ocean; tho' the curve
Of the great world's strong shoulder swells between;
Yet sure they are together.
