To moulder all unbound. The Grave alone
Shall do this office for us. Why, O Grave!
Giver of rest to Earth's o'erladen ones,
Whose love doth shame our friendship, and whose care
Treasureth what Memory scatters,—why with haste
Of bitter loathing, turn we from thine arms?
ON THE CELEBRATION OF WASHINGTON'S BIRTH DAY AT ROME, BY AMERICANS.
—Feb. 22, 1829.
There is a festive strain within the walls
Of the Eternal City, and high praise
Unto the glorious dead. Beauty doth twine
Her votive wreath, and Eloquence and Song
In eulogy burst forth. To whom, O Rome,
Mid all thy heroes, all thy demi-gods,
Thy purple-rob'd and mitred ones, to whom
Riseth this homage? But she wav'd her hand
And pointed me in silence as of scorn
Unto a stranger-band. Yes, there they stood,
The children of that Western Clime which slept
In embryo darkness, when tiara'd Rome
In all the peevish plenitude of power
Call'd Earth her footstool. There they stood serene,
True sons of that fair realm which needeth not
The faded pomp of royal pageantry
To trick her banner. Wheresoe'er they roam
Whether 'mid Andes' canopy of cloud,
Or the sunk cells of groping Labrador,
