Of Greece, or Rome, or Ilion's walls of fire,
Shall yield the palm to thee, their fathers' friend and sire.
True, some like thee Oppression's front have braved,
Through clouds and tempests moved with equal mind,
Have even a realm beloved from bondage saved;
But who, like thee, an empire's reins resign'd?
Turn'd to their sylvan home, and left a world behind?
Say ye he slumbers here? The wild flower sighs,
And from his dewy pillow drinks its bloom,
And the hoarse evening blasts that murmuring rise,
Boast as they sweep the awful warrior's tomb,
Pause o'er his silent couch, and revel in the gloom.
Yet err ye not, to say he sleeps in death,
Who lives undying in his country's breast?
Pours through each hero's heart inspiring breath,
Gleams o'er the patriot's path, the sages rest,
Of every glorious soul the model and the guest?
THE DEAD INFANT.
I had a little tender flower,
I nursed it in my choicest bower,—
No storm disturb'd the guest;
And even if the nightly dew
Hung heavy on its head,—I flew
To warm it in my breast.—
