GREAT Soul, and brave, 'tis good to think of thee,
And with a filial reverence raise the veil
From patriot valor, that ne'er sought of Fame
See we not again,
The unfinished furrow, the forsaken home,
The flying steed, urg'd by thy sleepless heart
That throbb'd indignant o'er a smother'd found,
The cry of Lexington?
That echoed cry
Rous'd a young nation from its lingering sleep
To rush against the force of tyrant power,
Time-consecrated, and with fling and stone
Defy the giant.
Bunker Hill records
Thy stern o'ermastery of the battle-storm,
The deep memorial of thy dauntless deeds
That bore the spirit of a trampled land,
Through this red preface of her liberty.
Hark!—from the heaving of yon burial sods
Where sleep our Country's champions, comes a
Demanding for thy name its just reward
Too long withheld.—Of History it demands
That lingering truth should light her lettered scroll,
And summons tardy man to set thy fame
In sculptured marble, that recording stars
May read it clearly from their silver thrones,
And lisping children from its tablet learn
What patriot virtue means.