Page:Poets of John Company.djvu/77

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W. F. THOMPSON.


Stupendous spirits—Ye could mould.
And re-create a nation's mind;
And will no whispering voice unfold,
Till my young heart grew old with thought
The magic art that rules mankind?
Oh, I have mused on all ye taught,
But never yet that sacred gleam
Has reached my soul in thought or dream.

'Tis vain, the task is not for me;
Fly, dreamy hopes and shadowy throne,
My country's soul I cannot free,
I will be master of my own;
Shades of the mighty—yet, oh yet
Shed o'er this heart the proud regret
That throbs and thrills in every beat,
A little while, and we shall meet.

Tho' ear is deaf, and voice is dumb,
I know the spirit dieth not;
The ocean sleeps, the storm shall come,
When I perchance shall be forgot;
Enough for me If freedom's eyes
Shall glisten where my ashes lie,
And freedom's tardy hand confer
A wreath on him who died for her.