Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/102

Lest from their graves a withering corse should rise:
But now, where pure and bright, the peaceful skies
And watching stars look down, on Groton's height,
Their monument attracts the traveller's eyes,
Whose souls unshrinking took their martyr-flight,
When Arnold's traitor-sword flashed out in fiendish might.

Youth with glad hand her frolic germs had sown,
And garlands clustered round his manly head,
Those garlands withered, and he stood alone
While on his cheek the gnawing hectic fed,
And chilling death-dews o'er his temple spread:
But on his soul a quenchless star arose,
Whose hallowed beams their brightest lustre shed
When the dimmed eye to its last pillow goes,—
He followed where it led, and found a saint's repose.

And now farewell! The rippling stream shall hear
No more the echo of thy sportive oar;
Nor the loved group, thy father's halls that cheer,
Joy in the magic of thy presence more;
Long shall their tears thy broken lyre deplore;
Yet doth thine image, warm and deathless, dwell
With those who love the minstrel's tuneful lore,
And still thy music, like a treasured spell,
Thrill deep within their souls. Lamented bard, farewell!