The moan of centuries breaks around these shores,
Whispers of sultry ages, and of woes
Low-trumpeted against the arch of Heaven....
A land that bows beneath the crescent moon
And shrinks within its glinting gaze—is this
The mausoleum of our nation's dead?
Yea, for their glory gathers on this strand!
Mourn not the brave with tears. These pagan hills
Are touched with sanctity: the Voice of God
Thrills thro' the barrenness of shrivell'd fields
And lingers where these warriors lie entombed—
'Neath the vast solitudes of Asian skies,
Where sleep they in a hush of eventide,
The sea their dirge, the stars their monuments!
