116
miscellaneous poems.
They wept not for the patriot—what recked they of a name?—
They knew that he had gone, and what to him was fame:
But in the solitude of home—as years crept slowly on,
And time, with healing wing, had soothed the grief now calmly borne,
The memory of those gallant men, and he, their aged sire,
Kindled anew within their hearts, his pure and holy fire.
They knew that he had gone, and what to him was fame:
But in the solitude of home—as years crept slowly on,
And time, with healing wing, had soothed the grief now calmly borne,
The memory of those gallant men, and he, their aged sire,
Kindled anew within their hearts, his pure and holy fire.
Thou asketh me, my boy "Where lie the ashes of the dead?
Raised not his country, for that deed, the marble o'er his head?"
Aye; e'en a monument of art—of sculpture rich and rare:
Oil I never hath the young eye gazed on ought so wondrous fair.
But, to the One Eternal is that holy structure reared,—
Raised not his country, for that deed, the marble o'er his head?"
Aye; e'en a monument of art—of sculpture rich and rare:
Oil I never hath the young eye gazed on ought so wondrous fair.
But, to the One Eternal is that holy structure reared,—
