The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot’s part,
And Pity’s sigh, that breathes the gentle heart.
Sloth jaundiced all! and from my graspless hand
Drop Friendship’s precious pearls, like hour-glass sand.
I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows,
A dreamy pang in Morning’s feverish dose.
Is this piled earth our Being’s passless mound?
Tell me, cold grave! is Death with poppies crowned?
Tired sentinel! ’mid fitful starts I nod,
And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a clod.