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28 Praise to the man! a nation stood
 * Beside his coffin with wet eyes,

Her brave, her beautiful, her good,
 * As when a loved one dies.

And still, as on his funeral-day,
 * Men stand his cold earth-couch around,

With the mute homage that we pay
 * To consecrated ground.

And consecrated ground it is,
 * The last, the hallowed home of one

Who lives upon all memories,
 * Though with the buried gone.

Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines,
 * Shrines to no code or creed confined—

The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
 * The Meccas of the mind.

Sages, with wisdom’s garland wreathed,
 * Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power,

And warriors with their bright swords sheathed,
 * The mightiest of the hour;

And lowlier names, whose humble home
 * Is lit by fortune’s dimmer star,

Are there—o’er wave and mountain come,
 * From countries near and far;