Classic Poem

I see above a crowded world a cross
Of gold. It grows like some great cedar tree
Upon a peak in shroud of cloud and moss,
Made bare and bronzed in far antiquity.
Stupendous pile! The grim Yosemite
Has rent apart his granite wall, and thrown
Its rugged front before us. Here I see
The strides of giant men in cryptic stone,
And turn, and slow descend where sleep the great alone.

The mighty captains have come home to rest;
The brave returned to sleep amid the brave.
The sentinel that stood with steely breast
Before the fiery hosts of France, and gave
The battle-cry that roll'd, receding wave
On wave, the foeman flying back and far,
Is here. How still! Yet louder now the grave
Than ever-crashing Belgian battle-car
Or blue and battle-shaken seas of Trafalgar.

The verger stalks in stiff importance o'er
The hollow, deep and strange responding stones;
He stands with lifted staff unchid before
The forms that once had crush'd or fashion'd thrones,
And coldly points you out the coffin'd bones:
He stands composed where armies could not stand.

A little time before. ... The hand disowns
The idle sword, and now instead the grand
And golden cross makes sign and takes austere command.