Theirs is no vulgar sepulchre--green sods

On thy fair bosom, silver lake, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, And round his breast the ripples break As down he bears before the gale.

The water is calm and still below, For the winds and waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air.

Hail to the land whereon we tread, Our fondest boast! The sepulchres of mighty dead, The truest hearts that ever bled, Who sleep on glory’s brightest bed, A fearless host:

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast receding hills that dim and distant rise.

So All is diff’rent, and yet All is One.

What great Effects from slender Causes flow!