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We remember-what freeman will not!

The Man of the People, whose name
Time’s ’scutcheon reveals without blot,

Ye ages! eternize his fame.
Be it joined yet with his who shrunk never

From the toil of humanity's friend;
Their bosoms were one--and forever

With WASHINGTON, FAYETTE should blend.

The land of the sceptre and slave,

Thy birth-place-is alien to thee; Yes, Europe, accursed, is the grave

Of all that is generous and free. Haste then gallant one! and repose

'Neath the peace-branch thou helpedst to rear; Not a heart but whose warmest pulse glows,

Lafayette! to welcome thee here.




He has stood in his years, on the bed of the slain,

The fields where his comrades perished; And memory, the tie has renewed again

With those his heart had cherished.

On the heights where the champions of freedom fell;

At the hour of a nation's glory,
He has bidden the column rise, and tell

To ages, its deathless story.

In the tent he has rested, that eltered THE CHIEF,

In the day of doubt and danger;
His tomb he has wet with the tears of grief,

They were not the tears of a stranger.

He departs!—we could wish here his autumn of bliss

Might ripen-kind winter before him-
In vain, for the waters that gave him to this

Loved clime, to his own will restore him.

Yet, ere millions who fondly love that Name,

Ingratitude ever spurning-
With mingled emotions shall faulter acclaim

To their Guest, o'er the billows returning:

Ere the Great and the Good from his dear native

land Receives the Patriots greeting ; Ere he clasps to his own, on that idolized strand,

The bosom, where love is beating:

With the sons of the tried who in peril were true,

He will hallow the Day of Oblation ;
Ye manes! hover near us, and gratefully view

The smiles and the tears of a nation.

He will witness the rapturous homage of love,

That man is sublimely bestowing

On him, whose achievements are written above,

Whose worth in the heart is glowing.

At that board he will honour the time-stricken head

Once known ’mid the cannon's rattle; At that feast he will pledge the Valiant—the Dead

Who rest in the shroud of battle.

Then go, Friend of Man! at the shrine of whose


Our holiest love is burning ;
The nation that welcomed, will render acclaim

To its Guest, o'er the billows returning.


My Father! my Father! when hosts were embattled,

The cordons beheld me, thy son, at thy side; Where freedom's flag hovered, her thunder-drums

rattled, I fought to defend her—to avenge would have


A stranger I came, yet thou didst not reject me,
In thy councils, thy thoughts, didst invite me to

share, Thou didst honour and love me, my Father! and

bless me,

That love thrilled my heart's core—it still lingers


I return to the fields of the patriot's glory,
Those fields wave their harvests like Eden in

But the deeds of the warrior live only in story,

And thou, too, my Father! hast gone to the tomb.

My Father! my Father! one war-tent did shield us,

Companion in perils thy joys too were mine; In death not divided, one grave shall receive us,

I hasten to mingle my ashes with thine.


TAE tall ship bounds across the wave,

Her canvass gaily spread;
She hastens past the billowy grave,

And over ocean's dead.
Now tempests revel round her mast,

And now the gale is gone;
Unheeding tempests, proud and fast,

The tall ship hurries on.

Now lessening to the weary eye,

The flying vessel seems
A pigmy thing of vanity,

That mocks men in their dreams.
Dimly she climbs along the steep,

A bubble of the breeze;
Then flashes o’er the yielding deep,

The meteor of the seas.

And whence that speed? Her flag on high

Waves it for glory now?
Where undiscovered worlds may lie

Points she her daring prow?
Nobly to cheer the patriot's toil,

Bears she high hearts afar?
Or to the ’nighted pagan's soil,

The light of Bethlehem's Star?
Onward she fies. Thou saw'st that deck-

The warrior treads not there;
In gallant trim she sails, the wreck

Of bosoms in despair!
And who may tell what bolt of God

Against her forth is gone?
Aye, while his anger is abroad

The Slave Ship hurries on.


His brow is stern and his cheek is cold,

In his scowl is fierce despair; His visage is sunk his eye is bold,

The deed of darkness is there.

For him affection nurtures no charm,

No tear has the ruffian shed;
Kind mercy to him can whisper no balm,

His bosom is seared and dead.


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