He Sleeps At Last

He sleeps at last! The vales of rest
Are waiting for the war-worn breast,
And glorious angels fondly spread
The sweetest roses for his bed.
While countless millions call him blest.

Fame welcomes him with glad behest,
While garlands on his brow are pressed,
And laurels cluster o'er his head;
He sleeps at last.

O, deep the sorrows here confessed,
Where Freedom makes eternal quest!
The wondrous chief that proudly led
The long, blue lines that fought and bled,
In peace is now no more distressed;
He sleeps at last!