THE POET BRAINERD.
I roved where Thames old Ocean's breast doth cheer,
Pouring from crystal urn the waters sheen,
What time dim twilight's silent step was near,
And gathering dews impearled the margin green;
Yet though mild autumn with a smile serene
Had gently fostered Summer's lingering bloom,
Methought strange sadness brooded o'er the scene,
While the deep river murmuring on in gloom
Mourned o'er its sweetest bard, laid early in the tomb.
His soul for friendship formed, sublime, sincere,
Of each ungenerous deed his high disdain,
Perchance the world might scan with eye severe;
Perchance his harp her guerdon failed to gain;
But Nature guards his fame, for not in vain
He sang her shady dells, and mountains hoar,
King Philip's swelling bay repeats his name
To its lone tower, and with eternal roar
Niagara bears it round to the wide-echoing shore.
Each sylvan haunt he loved; the simplest flower
That burns Heaven's incense in its bosom fair,
The crested billow with its fitful power,
The chirping nest that wooed a mother's care,
All woke his worship as some altar rare
Or sainted shrine doth win the pilgrim's knee;
And he hath gone to rest where earth and air
