Till angry Freedom, hovering o’er the fray,
Swooped down, and made a new Thermopylæ;—
In every scene of peril and of pain,
His were the toils, his country’s was the gain.
From field to field, and all were nobly won,
He bore, with eagle flight, her standard on:
New stars rose there—but never star grew dim
While in his patriot grasp. Weep not for him.
The heart is ne’er a castaway; its gift
Falls back, like dew to earth—the soul’s own thrift