Page:Selections from the American poets (IA selectamerpoet00bryarich).pdf/270

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W. E. Gallaudet.
Thy race, by savage war o'errun, Sunk down, their very name forgot;But, ere those fearful times begun,Perhaps, in this sequester'd spot,By Friendship's hand thine eyelids closed, By Friendship's hand the turf was laid;And Friendship here, perhaps, reposed, With moonlight vigils in the shade.The stars have run their nightly round, The sun look'd out and pass'd his way,And many a season o'er the ground Has trod where thou so softly lay.And wilt thou not one moment raise Thy weary head, a while to seeThe later sports of earthly days, How like what once enchanted thee?Thy name, thy date, thy life declare; Perhaps a queen, whose feathery bandA thousand maids have sigh'd to wear, The brightest in thy beauteous land;Perhaps a Helen, from whose eye Love kindled up the flames of war:Ah, me! do thus thy graces lie A faded phantom, and no more?Oh, not like thee would I remain, But o'er the earth my ashes strew,And in some rising bud regain The freshness that my childhood knew.But has thy soul, oh maid! so long Around this mournful relic dwelt?Or burst away, with pinion strong, And at the foot of Mercy knelt!
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