DEATH OF THE PATRIOT.
BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.
Unembitter'd by hate, and untroubled by strife,
Shall the Patriot we loved, to the dark grave descend,
Whilst the foes of his well-spent, political life,
Have forgot each distinction in the wide term of friend.
Each doubt that had whisper'd against him before,
Each feeling of Envy, of Jealousy, Hate—
Now awed into silence and sorrow, deplore,
Nor seek to detract from the fame of the great!
And great may we call him, whose mind in its scope,
No barrier could limit, no danger could tame;
Whose love for his country kept pace with the hope
That prompted her efforts and led her to fame—
Whose eye overlooking the clouds and the coil
That grow with the darkness and din of the hour,
Beheld from afar the reward of his toil,
And hailed the bright promise that told of her power—
Whose soul to its purpose and attributes true,
Sublimed far beyond mere humanity's scan,
Toiled fearlessly still for the glory in view,
The rights, and the triumph, and freedom of man!—
No voice in that cause was more potent or free,—
No spirit more fearless, no feeling more strong,
And its eloquence bold, like a stream from the sea,
Bore down, all resistless, each bulwark of wrong.
Oppression grew humbled—the tyrant grew pale,—
Ancient Error, in fear for her temple and tower,
Arrayed her foul agents, and strove to assail,
But in vain—the brave spirit that grappled her power.
And down went her bulwarks, and snapp'd was her chain,
Her subtle pretences like webs, torn apart,
Left man, as creation first spake him,—again,
Unshackled by Error, by Power, by Art!
And this was his triumph! The first of that band,
The high, the unshaken, unselfish and true,
Who dared in the front of the danger to stand,
Defying its force, and defeating it too.
Make his grave in the rock which the pilgrim may see,
And seek, o'er the fathomless waves of the deep;
But his monument build in the hearts of the free,
The treasure most dear that a freeman can keep.
And shed not a tear when ye think on his name,
And mourn not his loss, who, in dying, has given,
A record of triumphs, the proudest in fame,
A charter of freedom as lovely as Heaven.