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The mournful muse shall consecrate his name
With all the inspiration of the lyre;
And loyal bosoms kindling at his fame,
Shall glory in the patriotic fire.
And o'er the tomb that holds his sacred dust
Shall glory weave the brightest laurel crown;
While in the noble records of the just,
His name shall live in virtue's fair renown.
HOLIDAY HOURS.
INSCRIBED TO MY BROTHER CLAUDE.
Dear boy, let us think of the pleasures in spring,
When the season is welcom'd with garlands of flowers;
How thy moments will fly with delight on the wing,
How thy fancy will dwell on the holiday hours.
And sweet are those moments the young bosom knows,
Preceding the social endearments of home;
Where maternal affection so tenderly glows,
And invokes the gay holiday pleasures to come.
And oh! my sweet boy, when our years shall expand,
When we wander no more thro' our favorite bowers;
Perhaps we may sigh for the pleasures so bland,
The sportive delights of the holiday hours.
