FOUR graves there are upon the wooded crest, Each one a shrine to pilgrims ever dear.
Uncovered, mute, are those who tarry here.
Romance's dreaming master lies at rest Beneath the cedars. Near is one whose breast Held Mother Nature's lore. Beyond, the seer And sage. There, one who saw her duty clear, Her name by little men and women blessed.
Four friends who walked in Concord's pleasant ways Long years ago. They dwelt and worked apart, But now the world has crowned them with its bays, And holds them close forever to its heart.
O, sacred hill! There Genius, guarding stays, And from its slopes shall never Love depart!
