WHATE’ER thy fate, in life and death,
  Thou’rt doomed above us still to rise,
Whilst at a distance far beneath
  We view thee with admiring eyes.

The gazing crowds still round thee throng,
  Still to thy well-known voice repair,
As when erewhile thy hallowed tongue
  Poured in the mosque the solemn prayer.

Still, generous Vizier, we survey
  Thine arms extended o’er our head,
As lately, in the festive day,
  When they were stretched thy gifts to shed.

Earth's narrow bound’ries strove in vain
  To limit thy aspiring mind;
And now we see thy dust disdain
  Within her breast to be confined.

The earth's too small for one so great;
  Another mansion thou shalt have—
The clouds shall be thy winding-sheet,
  The spacious vault of heaven thy grave.