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ON THE CONVENTION AT HARTFORD.
December 15th, 1814.
SAY, who are these that tread the darken'd scene,
With cautious step and deeply thoughtful air?
No crested helmet shades their lofty mien,
No angry dart, or warring sword, they bear,
And though their glance is bold, their brows are mark'd with care.
Around their locks a half-form'd wreath is thrown,
Whose fading leaves, the deepning gloom increase,
Twin'd from a plant, now exil'd and unknown,
For whose return the prayer shall never cease,
The sacred olive fair, that marks the men of peace.
Tho' prompt to ward the near impending stroke,
And guard of freedom's stream the vital source,
They tempt no conflict, no revenge provoke,
But meet oppression in its daring course,
With wisdom's ample shield, of Heaven attemper'd force.
Ye sages firm! in dark and troubled times,
To you, in accents sad, your country sighs,
