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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
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,
Upon the hoary patriarch's bed!
They sank by nature's kind decay;
Yield it, when skies have fled away.
We mourn the chiefs of that proud band
That rose in Freedom's trying hour;
Their native land from Slavery's power.
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;
It never could forget
Those hours unknown to care-
It fondly nestled there.
Mother! I well remember thou
Wouldst smile upon thy boy;
Imprint the kiss of joy.
Was changed to sudden fear,
The traces of a tear.
And memory lingers at the hour
When, leaving all my play,
I was not wont to stray.
Yet was I much to blame?
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
Whilst thou, to nature true,
A mother's love could do. Long years have wandered by since then,
And I have sped my way
First hailed the laughing day;
And lingers oft with thee;
A blessing left for me?
Has silvered o'er thy hair;
Time sets his signet there;
Thy reverend hoary head,
That youth upon thee shed.
With filial thought, when I
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;
Long, long with hope to beat.
Thou seek'st thy last repose;
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.