IV.

Our errand here to-day Hath warrant fair, ye say; We come with you to consecrate A hero's, ay a prophet's monument; Yet needs he none, who was so great; Vainly they build in Cuba's isle afar His sepulcher beside the sapphire sea; He hath for cenotaph a continent, For funeral wreaths, the forests waving free, And round his grave go ceaselessly The morning and the evening star. Yet is it fit that ye should praise him best, For ye his true descendants are, A spirit-begotten progeny; Wherefore to thee, fair city of the West, From elder lands we gladly came To grace a prophet's fame.