Bid his fears and sorrows fly,
And proclaim thy pardoning grace.
Perhaps the last verses he ever wrote are some lines for the Fourth of July, 1843, which he presented to his friend and room-mate, L. P. H. They were written in better days than the present, although perhaps the “better days” of nations, like those of individuals, are more in seeming than in fact. However, we can all sincerely join in the last stanza:—
’Tis not before a blood-stained throne
We bend the knee to-day;
No monarch’s power we trembling own,
Nor feel a sceptre’s sway.
We bring no chaplet’s fragrant leaves,
To grace the conqueror’s brow;
No heart its flattering homage breathes