What myriads throng, in proud array,
With songs of joy, and flags unfurled,
To consecrate the glorious day,
That gave a nation to the world!
We raise no shout, no trumpet sound,
No banner to the breeze we spread;
Children of clay! bend humbly round;
We plant a City to the Dead.
For man a garden rose in bloom,
When you glad sun began to burn;
He fell, — and heard the awful doom, —
"Of dust thou art, — to dust return!"
But He, in whose pure faith we come,
Who in a gloomier garden lay,
Assured us of a brighter home,
And rose, and led the glorious way.
His word we trust! When life shall end,
Here be our long, long slumber passed;
To the first garden's doom we bend,
And bless the promise of the last.