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And from the student's cell, whose midnight lamp
Fed on the oil of life,—they come to wake
Our lingering gratitude.—
                                          And one I mark
Amid that band, whose brief and bright career,
Bold Sparta in her better days had claim'd
With stern and lofty joy.—Ask ye what thoughts
Convulsed his soul,—when his dear, native shores
Throng'd with the imagery of lost delight
Gleam'd on his darkening eye,—while the hoarse wave
Utter'd his death-dirge,—and no hand of love
Might yield its tender, trembling ministry?—
A prayer was there, for her who ruled his heart,—
And for his babes that thrilling agony
Which none but parents feel.—Yet deeper grief
Still rankled there,—his country's wrongs and woes
Clung to the riven heart-string,—for he knew
Whose voice had sworn to be the widow's stay
And orphan's refuge;—so the patriot sigh
Heaved in that dying bosom,—when the tear
Of husband and of father was exhaled.—
—Flock'd there around his couch in soothing dreams
Mid that last agony, no cherish'd form
Of kindred or of friend?—Came not his Sire
Thither with hoary temples, bending low
In speechless sorrow,—Hancock, firm of soul,—
Great Adams, dauntless in the righteous cause.—
Or Otis,—whose electric eloquence
Was like the ethereal flash that quench'd its spire
Deep in his bosom?—Breathed not Warren's voice
In fervent whisper to that parting soul,
"Wait,—wait my brother!"—while he proudly rush'd