BUNKER-HILL MONUMENT.
Rise lofty Column! in thine attic grace,
And to the stranger-bark that ploughs the deep,
Show Freedom's land. Beckon the homeward-bound,
Like some good angel, hovering o'er the roof
Where sport his little ones, and where with song,
Whose oft-repeated burden is his name,
The mother lulls to sleep her cradled babe.
—Then the rough sailor, battling with the surge,
Forgets his toil, and he who wandered long
In foreign climes, perchance, with eager eye
The glittering pageant, or for regal pomp,
Owns the electric chain that binds so strong
Unto his native hills, and feels how good
To live and die amid his fathers' graves.
But thou,—around thy base, when early Spring
Tints the first violet, lure those beauteous groups
Who gambol free from care. There should they meet
Some ancient soldier leaning on his staff,
And lost amid the memories of the past,
