Though laurel crowns and victor wreaths
Be for the sons of triumph twined;
Though song her sweetest music breathes
For the destroyers of our kind;
O let them weep, for time shall sweep
Their perishable pomp away;
O let them mourn, for death shall turn
The proudest conqueror into clay.
But there's a deathless coronet
Wrought for the holy and the wise;
And there is music sweeter yet,
Which never faints and never dies:
The good may see earth's glory flee;
Heaven's ever-living glory theirs;
Their path is peace and pleasantness,
And they are joy's immortal heirs.