THE POET BRAINERD.
I roved where Thames old Ocean's breast doth cheer,
Pouring from crystal urn the waters sheen,
What time dim twilight's silent step was near,
And gathering dews impearled the margin green;
Yet though mild autumn with a smile serene
Had gently fostered Summer's lingering bloom,
Methought strange sadness brooded o'er the scene,
While the deep river murmuring on in gloom
Mourned o'er its sweetest bard, laid early in the tomb.
His soul for friendship formed, sublime, sincere,
Of each ungenerous deed his high disdain,
Perchance the world might scan with eye severe;
Perchance his harp her guerdon failed to gain;
But Nature guards his fame, for not in vain
He sang her shady dells, and mountains hoar,
King Philip's swelling bay repeats his name
To its lone tower, and with eternal roar
Niagara bears it round to the wide-echoing shore.
Each sylvan haunt he loved; the simplest flower
That burns Heaven's incense in its bosom fair,
The crested billow with its fitful power,
The chirping nest that wooed a mother's care,
All woke his worship as some altar rare
Or sainted shrine doth win the pilgrim's knee;
And he hath gone to rest where earth and air
Lavish their sweetest charms, while pure and free
Sounds forth the wind-swept harp of his own native sea.
His country's brave defenders, few and gray,
By penury stricken, with despairing sighs
He sang, and boldly woke a warning lay,
Lest from their graves a withering curse should rise;
Now near his bed on which the peaceful skies
And watching stars look down, on Groton's height
Their monument attracts the traveller's eyes
Whose souls unshrinking took their martyr-flight
When Arnold's traitor-sword flashed out in fiendish might.
Youth, with free hand, her frolic germs had sown,
And garlands clustered round his manly head,
Those blossoms withered, and he stood alone
Till on his cheek the blushing hectic fed,
And o'er his manly brows cold death-dews spread;
Then in his soul a quenchless star arose
Whose holy beams their purest lustre shed,
When the dimmed eye to its last pillow goes,
He followed where it led, and found a saint's repose.
And now farewell. The rippling stream shall hear
No more the echo of thy sportive oar,
Nor the loved group thy father's halls that cheer
Joy in the magic of thy presence more;
Long shall their tears thy broken lyre deplore.
Yet doth thine image warm and deathless dwell
With those who prize the minstrel's hallowed lore,
And still thy music, like a treasured spell,
Thrills deep within their sails. Lamented bard, farewell!