O Warrior, art thou troubled in thy tomb.
As far off cannon-thunders reach thine ear?
Thy very dust should quiver now to hear
The anguish rising where the death-clouds loom:
O generous Victor, in that marble gloom, —
Thou who spoke seldom, — from that dwelling drear
Speak thou with clarion tone, — proclaim it clear
That hell-born Carnage now shall meet its doom:
Rise from thy crypt to mount thy phantom steed,
And like some ghostly and gigantic Knight
Throned on this summit in the moon's weird light,
Let thy voice sound across encrimsoned seas;
Warn the mad World, and with the Nations plead
For lasting concord — universal peace!