- Scarce had the lingering echo died, that loudly broke upon the ear,
- Waked by the measured cannon’s roar, deep thundering o’er the patriot’s bier.
- The funeral anthem had not ceased, nor grief it’s solemn tribute paid
- Ere the pained ear, the tidings caught—“another patriot low is laid.”
- It was bright Freedom’s Jubilee, that saw them gently pass away,
- And every heart and every tongue, with double transport hail’d the day,
- When every mountain’s soaring brow, was blazing in her beacon light,
- And proudly waving to the wind, her standard sheet in glory bright,
- Unfurl’d a signal to the brave, their toils were o’er, their battles done,
- And Freedom glorying in her sons, a world had from oppression won.
- Matur’d in age and ripe in fame, how glorious was their closing day,
- Whose ebbing lives together sunk, amid the splendours of her ray!
- The light that beam’d o’er Freedom’s clime, a holier, purer splendour gave,
- Than e’er the torches’ midnight glare, shed o’er the pompous, regal grave:
- Their glorious knell the cannon pealed—the shout of triumph bursting loud,
- Sent forth the patriot’s proud farewell—and Freedom’s banner was their shroud:
- They sunk encircled by the light, whose splendour they had fondly fed,
- And glory of its deathless beams, formed a bright halo for each head.
- The hearts whose youthful pulses beat, by Freedom’s dawning spirit fired;
- Together gave their latest thrub, together on her shrine expired!
- United thus the patriots sunk, and though in life apart they shone,
- Yet Heaven decreed, in death, their fame should form one burning sun alone.
- There was a spell that bound their souls, loved thoughts of youthful days gone by,
- That charm stern discord could not break, or wither friendship’s tender tie.
- Their minds might varying plans pursue—but patriot hearts are slow to sever,
- And death with strange, mysterious blow, unites their deathless names forever.
- Together on each hallow’d bier, a nation’s grateful tears shall fall.
- Together shall a nation’s voice in future days, their names recall.
- Each coming festival shall bring to memory’s view their noble end
- And blessings on each honor’d name shall from the patriot’s lips ascend.
- The sacred Jubilee is theirs, who pillow’d on fond Freedom’s breast,
- In honor’d age together slept, and sunk amid her light to rest:
- Their fame must live, while o’er this clime her gentle, glorious sway extends,
- And deathless may that glory prove, that but with Freedom’s triumphs end.
- They sleep beneath the sacred sod, the freeman’s blood in combat dyed,
- The temple reared by patriot hands, still stands in fresh and towering pride:
- Their spirits join the noble band, who aided in the sacred toil,
- And ne’er may guile or conquering force, the fabric crumble or despoil.
- No! when the patriot sleeps in dust, his very grave contains a spell,
- To rouse the brave, and bid the soul, with high and holy valour swell.
- When withering years of night and gloom, have veiled some fam’d but hapless land,
- And the crush’d spirit cowering sunk, beneath a despot’s stern command,
- The hero’s grave, the patriot’s tomb, has roused the dim and struggling flame,
- And every crumbling monument sent forth a stirring call to fame.
- So when o’er Greece a minstrel rov’d—the pride of Freedom and of song,
- His magic numbers from her tombs, called forth a spell so deep and strong,
- That rous'd to madness by the lyre, that bade them seek their fathers’ graves
- And from “their ashes snatch the fires” that never beam’d on trembling slaves,
- Her sons the cry of Freedom raised, unfurled her banner once again,
- And still unworn, with frantic strength essay to break the tyrant’s chain.
- And thou blest region, land of Fame! bright Freedom’s undeserted home,
- Hast spells to bind her ever here—lov’d spots from which she will not roam.
- For who so lost to generous fame, so careless of the sacred sod
- That wraps the ashes of his sires, where none but freemen ever trod,
- As see a haughty despot print his footsteps on the hallow’d clay,
- Nor burn with fierce indignant rage to wash the stain in blood away!
- The wand’ring hunter of the wild, when conquest pours its sweeping tide,
- Grieves not to leave the flying deer, the tangled forest green and wide,
- But while he quits the sylvan haunts with bow unstrung and sadden’d eyes,
- ’Tis for his father’s honor’d graves, his deepest last regrets arise;
- Some warrior chieftain slumbers there, where rudest sculpture marks the place,
- And ill the fugitive can brook, a conqueror should his tomb deface.
- But oh! a holier fire shall fill, the freeman’s noble grateful breast,
- A higher impulse bid him prize the graves where Wisdom, Valour rest,
- And through the burning lights that shone on Freedom’s young and dawning day,
- Have left their lov’d and mourning land, and slowly wasting passed away—
- Forever hallow’d is the earth, where sleep the patriot and the brave,
- Whose very ashes have a voice—a warning cry to guard and save.