The minions of a perfumed age Already crowd upon the stage,— The massive manhood of the past In many a graceful mould is cast; And yet with calm and kindly eyes You view the feast for others spread, And hail the blue benignant skies Resigned and grandly comforted. It was for this you broke the way Before the sunset gates of day— For this, with godlike faith endued, You scaled the misty crags of fate, And, with resounding labors, hewed The Doric pillars of the state. There is no task for you to do— Your tents are furled, the bugle blown— But yet another day, and you Will live in clustered fame alone. The fir will chant a song of rue, The pine will drop a wreath, may be, And o’er the dim Cascades the stars Will nightly roll the gleaming cars You followed well from sea to sea. Before your scarred battalion’s wheel Into the mystic realm of shade, And on your grizzled brows the seal Of mystery is softly laid, Once more around your old campfires, That smoulder like fulfilled desires, Rehearse the story of your toils Display the hero crowned with spoils— The glimmer of triumphant steel, Beneath the garland and the braid.