( G. P. , Buried 1870)
What may we chant, O thou within this tomb? What tablets, outlines, hang for thee, O millionaire? The life thou lived’st we know not, But that thou walk’dst thy years in barter, ’mid the haunts of brokers, Nor heroism thine, nor war, nor glory.
Silent, my soul, With drooping lids, as waiting, ponder’d, Turning from all the samples, monuments of heroes.
While through the interior vistas, Noiseless uprose, phantasmic, (as by night Auroras of the north,) Lambent tableaus, prophetic, bodiless scenes, Spiritual projections.