See this plashing fount enshrined,
Some ancient people roofed and lined;
Some memory here of a forlorn rime,
A thought, a breath of a thought sublime
A sobbing under the wings of time.
See the ancient people's grave:
No Andromache, no slave
Water here for a master draws,
No slaves longer laugh and pause.
All's strange language and new laws.
O words, be good to impart assurance
Of hope, of memory, of endurance,
O flourish grass upon our tomb,
Grant us, sunk in a little room,
Both a sepulchre and home.