POEMS.
105
And who could seek a prouder spot,
On which that dust to shed,
O'er him, whose verse that dieth not,
Hath sung the mighty dead?
The gifted poet sleepeth here,
The patriot's spirit hovers near,
A union still in death!
H. A.
On which that dust to shed,
O'er him, whose verse that dieth not,
Hath sung the mighty dead?
The gifted poet sleepeth here,
The patriot's spirit hovers near,
A union still in death!
H. A.
ON THE THREATENED DESTRUCTION OF SOME WITHERED CHRISTMAS HOLLY.
Stay! ere you doom the symbol of your mirth,
So lately cherished 'mid each joyous scene;
Can it not be in memory verdant—yet
The drooping boughs no more be tinged with green?
So lately cherished 'mid each joyous scene;
Can it not be in memory verdant—yet
The drooping boughs no more be tinged with green?
'Twas but ere now each faded leaf was prized,
Was sought, where flow'rs of beauty were passed by;
Oh! if you cherished then have pity now;
You cannot love and doom remorselessly.
Was sought, where flow'rs of beauty were passed by;
Oh! if you cherished then have pity now;
You cannot love and doom remorselessly.
