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And all abstracted from the world he seem'd,
As if of other climes and spheres he dream'd;
For as he rov'd, the mental eye he cast
Darkly on days, and hopes, forever past,
And something like reproach he might have said,
But said it not—and meekly bow'd his head.
Not thus he look'd, when in the hall of state,
The list'ning crowd approv'd the wise debate;
Not thus he mov'd, when to the trumpets clang,
The rending earth, and hollow mountains rang,
And dark'ning war-clouds gather'd o'er the plain,
And the high steed disdain'd the rider's rein.
For this sad man was once his country's pride,
Bred in her camps, and in her councils tried;
And when she first, serene in youthful charm,
Gave her weak hand to prop a mother's arm,
His dark eye flash'd, and on he rush'd to know
A soldier's want, and weariness, and woe;
Dauntless in danger, unsubdu'd by pain,
'Till gladness sparkled in her eye again.
And when, in later times, a host was seen,
With haughty step to print her vallies green,
And she arose with strength, he with her rose,
And firmly aim'd his falchion at her foes;
Assum'd the statesman's robe, the warrior's crest,
Mov'd when she call'd, and where she pointed, prest.
For her his arm was bar'd, his bosom burn'd.
