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For her his wakeful eye to Heaven was turn'd;
Nor deem'd it much that in her hour of woe,
He, toil, and pain, and agony should know;
And little reck'd he that her hour of strife
Should claim the strength and glory of his life;
But dream'd not once that she, for whom he rov'd,
Would ever glance upon him, unapprov'd;
Or through his panting side, with fury rude,
Plunge the sharp point of dire ingratitude;
Or turning from him with a demon's rage,
Strew with fresh thorns, the journey of his age.
Yet O my country, slumb'ring on the steep,
That beetles fiercely o'er the foaming deep,
A voice is on the breeze; unseal thine eyes,
The still, small voice of injur'd merit cries;
Arouse thine ancient spirit, rush to save
A suffering servant, e'er he seek his grave.
O man of sorrows! who wert wont to bear,
Ev'n in thy youth the agony of care,
Who like a rock in times of danger rose,
Be greatly firm to bear thy weight of woes.
Vet'ran, be firm! for on a threshold dread,
Thy weary, unsupported foot does tread,
The threshold of the grave; yet if no sin,
No poison'd spring of action boil within,
If on the arm of Deity thou trust,
Mix, free from terror, with thy kindred dust.
A day there is when thou shalt wake from sleep,
