Now, neath the shadow of the princely palm,
And where Liberia's church-crown'd summits rise,
Are sighs from sable bosoms, swelling deep
With gratitude for all thy hallow'd care.
—The Prelate, unto whom thy heart of hearts
Was link'd so tenderly,—who found in thee
Solace for exile from his native shore,
Laments thy loss, as the lone hours go by.
He mourns thee deepest, for he knew thee best,
Thy purity, thy sublimated search