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His pageant is dimmed with the tears of a nation,

Blest are the tears that such relics bedew; Yet richer and purer the grateful oblation* That soothed e'en when time was receding from

view.

REQUIEM,

Written for the 24th of July, 1826–Observed in Philadelphia as a

day of mourning for Adams and Jefferson.

In glory wrapt, the Sages sleep-

How venerable are the dead,
When freemen gather round to weep,

Upon the hoary patriarch's bed!
Garnered in ripeness, to the tomb

They sank by nature's kind decay;
Earth! take their dust, 'till thou in bloom

Yield it, when skies have fled away.

We mourn the chiefs of that proud band

That rose in Freedom's trying hour;
To sound her trump and save the land,

Their native land from Slavery's power.
Their mighty souls no terror knew,

They blenched not at the rebel's name

Alluding to a remittance of seven thousand five hundred dollars from New York, which satisfied some craving creditors, and enabled the benefactor of his country to die in peace.

When, calling heaven the deed to view,

They gave themselves to deathless fame.

As Israel's covenant went before

Her hosts, a sign and guide to them, So these the sacred charter bore,

A leading and a cheering gem. And through the frequent scath and fight,

That beacon led our fathers on, Till o’er Columbia's weary night

In splendours broke the noonday sun.

Glorious in life, to them 'twas given

In hallowed hour to pass away; Blest hour! marked by approving heaven,

A Natal and Triumphant day. The thunders that will ever tell

To future time our Jubilee, Patriots! shall ring a mournful knell

of grief-of gladness too, for ye.

While one by one the ancient sires

Have joined the dead at glory's call, To us be given their holy fires,

On us may their bright mantles fall. Ye bending spirits! hover nigh,

Inspire us, while anew we swear The boon ye left we'll guard, and die

Ere we that birthright do impair.

TO MY MOTHER IN NEW ENGLAND.

MOTHER! six summer suns have flown

Since thou and I have met;
And though this heart has wept alone,

It never could forget
The happy hours of infancy,

Those hours unknown to care-
When sheltered in a mother's love

It fondly nestled there.

Mother! I well remember thou

Wouldst smile upon thy boy;
And warmly on his childish brow,

Imprint the kiss of joy.
I wondered why my gladness then

Was changed to sudden fear,
When on my glowing cheek I felt

The traces of a tear.

And memory lingers at the hour

When, leaving all my play,
I sought her presence, from whose smiles

I was not wont to stray.
I was a mother-boy I knew,

Yet was I much to blame?
For pleasure of the heart like this,

The world has not a name.

I slept--but thou couldst not, for oft

My sleep, unquiet, told

Of sickness stealing o'er my frame,

And midnight saw thee hold
Thy child within thy wearied arms,

Whilst thou, to nature true,
Wouldst sooth my frequent pain with all

A mother's love could do. Long years have wandered by since then,

And I have sped my way
Far from New England's hills, where I

First hailed the laughing day;
Yet, Mother! truant thought returns

And lingers oft with thee;
Hast thou not, O my parent, yet

A blessing left for me?
Thou art not what thou wast, for age

Has silvered o'er thy hair;
Thy eye is dim, thy cheek is pale-

Time sets his signet there;
Yet dearer, dearer to this heart,

Thy reverend hoary head,
My Mother! than the auburn locks

That youth upon thee shed.
How could it fail to touch my heart

With filial thought, when I
Knew it was care for me that paled
Thy chee

and dimmed thy eye? Yes, eloquent the tender glance

That thou dost turn on me; Dimly, yet kindly-in that look,

How much of love I see!

Be it my lot to smooth the way,

Before thy pilgrim feet;
And cause the heart that yearned for me,

Long, long with hope to beat.
Be it my lot to pillow where

Thou seek'st thy last repose;
One little flower shall mark the spot-

The simple church-yard rose.

MY FATHER'S GRAVE.

Since thou betook'st thee to thy rest,

Long time, my father, hąs passed by; And gathered now upon thy breast,

The dust of twenty years doth lie. Corruption, too, its work has done,

With many that wept then for thee; And those thou lovedst, one by one,

Have slumbered in tranquillity: I was but young, and yet the day

Has never from remembrance gone, When I beheld thee borne away,

When I was left, and felt alone. 0, there's a throb of dreariness

That mere affliction never gave ; Earth seems to him a wilderness,

Who bends upon a parent's grave.

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