 | The Western home |  |
119
THE LAST JOURNEY OF HENRY CLAY.
He passeth on his way,
The man to senates dear,
The silver-voiced, whom gathered throngs
Still held their breath to hear.
He hath no warrior's crown,
No laurel on his breast,
But Peace her drooping olive binds
Amid his stainless crest.
The man to senates dear,
The silver-voiced, whom gathered throngs
Still held their breath to hear.
He hath no warrior's crown,
No laurel on his breast,
But Peace her drooping olive binds
Amid his stainless crest.
He shrank not at his post
Till the spoiler grasped his hand,
And sternly chained the silver tongue
Whose music charmed the land.
Mid Summer's glorious pride
With the tramp of an iron steed,
He sweepeth on, o'er the realm he loved—
But his closed eye takes no heed.
Till the spoiler grasped his hand,
And sternly chained the silver tongue
Whose music charmed the land.
Mid Summer's glorious pride
With the tramp of an iron steed,
He sweepeth on, o'er the realm he loved—
But his closed eye takes no heed.
120
Our cities veiled their heads
As through their gates he passed,
And the mournful voice of tolling bells
Wailed out upon the blast:
And forth our noblest came
To guard their sacred trust,
And weeping woman cast her wreath
Upon his honoured dust.
As through their gates he passed,
And the mournful voice of tolling bells
Wailed out upon the blast:
And forth our noblest came
To guard their sacred trust,
And weeping woman cast her wreath
Upon his honoured dust.
He passeth on his way
In more than kingly state,
And silent children press to gaze
Upon the fallen great;
While from the ramparts proud,
Where his country's banners fly,
The booming cannon speaks his praise—
But he deigneth no reply.
In more than kingly state,
And silent children press to gaze
Upon the fallen great;
While from the ramparts proud,
Where his country's banners fly,
The booming cannon speaks his praise—
But he deigneth no reply.
There's sorrow on the wave
As the coffined dead they bring—
The passing ships their pennons furl,
Like an eagle's broken wing;
And as the rippling streams
That precious burden bore,
The murmuring rivers tell their grief
To every shrouded shore.
As the coffined dead they bring—
The passing ships their pennons furl,
Like an eagle's broken wing;
And as the rippling streams
That precious burden bore,
The murmuring rivers tell their grief
To every shrouded shore.
121
He passeth on his way,
To his own cultured lawn—
The shadow of his planted trees
That bloom when he is gone:
And agonizing love
Beholds with stifled moan,
A nation's tear upon the bier,
That mingles with her own.
To his own cultured lawn—
The shadow of his planted trees
That bloom when he is gone:
And agonizing love
Beholds with stifled moan,
A nation's tear upon the bier,
That mingles with her own.
Bow down in reverent wo
Beside his sable pall,
The friend of man, who fearless sought
The brotherhood of all!
Strong in a Saviour's strength
When life's frail web was riven,
The Truth and Peace he loved on earth
Made him at home in Heaven.
Beside his sable pall,
The friend of man, who fearless sought
The brotherhood of all!
Strong in a Saviour's strength
When life's frail web was riven,
The Truth and Peace he loved on earth
Made him at home in Heaven.
| The Western home | |