  This man hath reared a monument more grand Than sculptured bronze, and loftier than the height Of regal pyramids in Memphian sand, Which not the raging tempest nor the might Of the loud North-wind shall assailing blight, Nor years unnumbered nor the lapse of time! Not all of him shall perish! for the bright And deathless part shall spurn with foot sublime The darkness of the grave—the dread and sunless clime! He shall be sung to all posterity With freshening praise, where in the morning’s glow The farm-boy with his harnessed team shall be, And where New England’s swifter rivers flow And orange groves of Alabama blow— Strong in humility, and great to lead A mighty people where the ages go! Take then thy station, O illustrious dead! And place, Immortal Fame, the garland on his head! —Horace: B. iii., Ode xxx. LIFE AND WORK OF JAMES A. GARFIELD.
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