Furl We The Sails, And Pass With Tardy Oars Through These Bright Regions, Casting Many A Glance Upon The Dream-Like Issues, The Romance Of Many-Coloured Life That Fortune Pours Round The Crusaders, Till On Distant Shores Their Labours End; Or They Return To Lie, The Vow Performed, In Cross-Legged Effigy, Devoutly Stretched Upon Their Chancel Floors. Am I Deceived? Or Is Their Requiem Chanted By Voices Never Mute When Heaven Unties Her Inmost, Softest, Tenderest Harmonies; Requiem Which Earth Takes Up With Voice Undaunted, When She Would Tell How Brave, And Good, And Wise, For Their High Guerdon Not In Vain Have Panted!