Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/101

Had gently fostered summer's lingering bloom,
Methought strange sadness lingered o'er the scene,
While the lone river, murmuring on in gloom.
Deplored its sweetest bard, laid early in the tomb.

His soul for friendship formed, sublime, sincere,
Of each ungenerous deed his high disdain,
Perchance the cold world scanned 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 Phillip's billowy bay repeats his name,
To its gray tower, and with eternal roar
Niagara bears it on, to the far-echoing shore.

Each sylvan haunt he loved, the simplest flower
That burned Heaven's incense in its bosom fair,
The crested billow, with its fitful power,
The chirping nest that claimed 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
Lavish their sweetest charms, while loud and free
Sounds forth the wind-swept harp, of his own native sea.

His country's brave defenders, few and gray,
By penury stricken, with despairing sighs,
He nobly sang, and breathed a warning lay