THE TOMB OF BURROWS.
I saw the green turf resting cold
On Burrows’ hallow’d grave;
No stone the inquiring patriot told
Where slept the good and brave.
Heaven’s rain and dew conspired to blot
The traces of the holy spot.
No flow’rets deck’d the little mound,
That moulder’d on his breast,
Nor rural maidens, gathering round,
His tomb with garlands drest;
But sporting children thoughtless trod
On valor’s consecrated sod.
I mourn’d, who for his country bleeds
Should be forgot so soon,
That fairest fame and brightest deeds
Should want a common boon.
But oh! the rich have hearts of steel,
And what can Penury more than feel?
At length “a passing stranger” came
Whose hand its bounties shed;
He bade the sparkling marble claim
A tribute for the dead:
And, sweetly blending, hence shall flow
The tears of gratitude and woe!