Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, 
  Gentle and merciful and just! 
Who, in the fear of God, didst bear 
  The sword of power, a nation's trust. 

In sorrow by thy bier we stand, 
  Amid the awe that hushes all, 
And speak the anguish of a land 
  That shook with horror at thy fall. 

Thy task is done; the bound are free; 
  We bear thee to an honored grave, 
Whose proudest monument shall be 
  The broken fetters of the slave. 

Pure was thy life; its bloody close 
  Hath placed thee with the sons of light, 
Among the noble host of those 
  Who perished in the cause of Right.