XXII.
Peace to the mingling dead!
Beneath the turf we tread,
Chief, Pilgrim, Patriot sleep—
All gone! how changed! and yet the same,
As when faith’s herald bark first came
In sorrow o’er the deep.
Still from his noonday height,
The sun looks down in light;
Along the trackless realms of space,
The stars still run their midnight race;
The same green valleys smile, the same rough shore
Still echoes to the same wild ocean’s roar:—
But where the bristling night-wolf sprang
Upon his startled prey,
Where the fierce Indian’s war-cry rang,
Through many a bloody fray;
[p17]
And where the stern old Pilgrim prayed
In solitude and gloom,
Where the bold Patriot drew his blade,
And dared a patriot’s doom—
Behold! in liberty’s unclouded blaze,
We lift our heads, a race of other days.