La Fayette

The wail of France comes o’er the sea,—
She mourns for thee, departed chief;
And we, the children of the Free,
Re-echo back the notes of grief.

Thy course was like the morning sun,
That lights two worlds, the east and west;
Thy brilliant, glorious race is run,
Thou takest thine eternal rest.

Thy fame shall pass from age to age,
From clime to clime, from sire to son;
And History, on her glowing page,
Shall write thy name with Washington.