We celebrate with pomp and pride
⁠A Cromwell or a Wellington;
We venerate who, self-denied,
⁠Earth's higher victories have won;
But through the all-remembering years,
We love who give us smiles and tears.

The voice that charmed us may grow still,
⁠The poet cease to weave his spell:
Ascended to the skyey hill
⁠Remote, where the immortals dwell,—
Time to our thought but more endears
⁠Who gave us smiles and gave us tears.