ON THE DEATH OF JOHN ADAMS.
july 4, 1826.
What sounds are these?—Why breaks the swelling shout
Of music forth, from viol and from trump,
Harp, lute and organ,—while the tuneful breath
Of man doth lend that melody a soul
And bear it high to heaven?—How sweet the voice
Of a young nation from her peaceful vales,
Praising the God of might!—The chorus fell
In gratulation on a patriarch's ear,
Who in the bosom of his sylvan home
With dignity reposed.—His aged brow
Reveal'd that latent energy which glow'd
Deep and intense, when for an infant land
He pour'd high eloquence, and o'er her spread
His Roman shield.—And now he saw her clad
In majesty, to awe the subject wave,
Sending her teeming thousands toward the west,
And breathing from her mountain throne, the strain
Of raptured liberty.—There was a thrill
Of transport rushing through that aged breast,
Which they, whom sloth and luxury have nursed,
May never know.—Low bowing on his staff
He worshipp'd God,—and spake with kindling eye
Of that day's glory,—while the patriot flame
Which in his bosom burn'd while life was young,
Burst through the frost of years.—
—Old Time restored
Once more, that fulness of prophetic joy,
With which this unborn Jubilee he mark'd
Through the long vista of distressful years,
