Endured its burdens, punishments and pains,
And sank despairing, to a noteless grave.
Perchance, Powhatan here in regal pride,
His warriors marshall'd and his banners waved,
Or Pocahontas, smit with pity, sigh'd
For the pale victim that her valour saved.
Gone are the fathers to their mouldering bed,
Their vision vanish'd and their duties o'er,
The forest race like gliding shadows fled,
Throng the dark boundary of oblivion's shore:
But thou remain'st,—by ruthless Time revered,
And spared by tempests in their wrecking rage,
To hoar antiquity a friend endear'd,
The sacred beacon of a buried age.
So when the pomp and pageantry of earth
Shall feed the fierceness of destruction's fire,
The meek devotion that in thee had birth
Shall soar, unchanging, never to expire.
ON READING THE LIFE OF QUINCY, BY HIS SON.
Behold they burst their tombs!—They start to life!—
The Chiefs of other days, who nobly ranged
Around their infant country,—prompt to guard
Her serpent-haunted cradle.—Yes! they rise
From the red battle-sods, from ocean's breast,
