The monument stands, no longer the care
Of mallet and chisel and plummet and square.
With a flourish of trumpets and rolling of drums
The glad hour comes
When the statue above it will loom unveil’d.
Lo, now the crowds that are under it sway;
The bugles are sounding; and look!—away
The veil is dropt!—and afar is hail’d,
With wild huzzas and hands that fly,
The form of the man that stands on high.