The warm blood gushing from his heart hath stain’d the sod below—
That tree shall be my chronicle, for it hath seen it flow!
Sweet glide thy waters, Ashley, and pleasant on thy banks
The mossy oak and mossy pine stand forth in solemn ranks;
They crown thee in a fitting guise, since, with a gentle play,
Through bending groves and circling dells thou tak’st thy lonely way:
Thine is the Summer’s loveliness—thy Winter too hath charms,
Thus sheltered in thy mazy course beneath their Druid arms;
And thine the recollection old, which honors thy decline,
When happy thousands saw thee rove, and Dorchester was thine.