The works, in verse and prose, of the late Robert Treat Paine, Jun. Esq ::

Pale is the mournful eye of setting day;
The gloomy fields in weeds of woe appear;
O'er the dim lawn dread horror bends his way,
And solemn silence bids the mind revere.

Beneath thick glooms the distant landscape fades;
The sad moon weeps o'er yon funeral ground;
Hark! the dull rippling stream the ear invades;
The soul, wild staring, startles at each sound!

What ghastly phantoms round me seem to rise!
With this just lecture on their tongues they come;
In yonder spot Fame's great colossus lies;
A Bowdoin moulders in the humble tomb!

How short the fleeting hour assigned to man!
To Virtue's nobler charge the task is given,
Beyond the grave to extend the narrow span,
And gain a blest eternity in heaven.

Yes, 'tis a glorious truth, that man, refined
From all the impurities of sordid clay,
No more an exile on vile earth confined,
Shall shine amid the stars of endless day.

Hark! the sad voice of death, with solemn sound,
Calls from their distant caves the sleeping gales!
The gales with sighs the awful voice resound,
And tears of grief bedew the echoing vales.

Across the fields see heavenly Virtue stray;
Philosophy, dejected at her side,
And Love celestial bend their pensive way,
And give free vent to grief's impetuous tide!

Mid the dark melancholy walks of death,
Towards a stately monument they rove;
And hang on the tomb their votive wreath,
A wreath with mingled honours fondly wove.

From realms of purest happiness they flow,
To adorn the grave where their dear votary slept;
The world they found suffused in tears of woe,
And feeling for its loss in pity wept.

Around the tomb the heavenly spirits stand,
In all the plaintive eloquence of grief;
“Here rest in peace, thou patriot of thy land,
“Sage of the world, and Virtue's darling chief!”

“Let spring immortal o'er thy ashes bloom;
“To thee let earth the laurelled wreath resign;
“The ivy and the olive deck the tomb;
“For valour, eloquence, and peace were thine!”

“Well may thy friends bedew thy hallowed urn,
“Ambition weep, despairing of thy fame;
“Well may thy country o'er thy relicks mourn,
“And wondering earth immortalize thy name.”

Weep o'er the grave, which Bowdoin's dust entombs;
In him such splendid traits their charms unite,
Like the bright lamp, which heaven and earth illumes,
He shone the sun of philosophick light!

In him the patriot virtues all combined;
In him was Freedom's voice divinely heard;
Soft grace and energy adorned his mind,
And constellated excellence appeared.

How oft have senates on his accents hung,
And viewed the blended powers of genius meet,
In flowing musick, melting from his tongue,
Strong, without rage, and without flattery, sweet.

When Massachusetts' patriot sages met,
To snatch from fate their country's falling name,
His arm, like Jove's, upreared the sinking state,
And raised a pillar in the dome of fame.

His noble soul no selfish motive fired;
His country's glory was his godlike aim;
In danger prudent, resolute, admired;
And every action but enhanced his fame.

Beneath his friendly wing the muses found
A father, smiling on-their infant lyre;
There Art and Science were with bounty crowned,
And Learning owned a Bowdoin for her sire.

In him rejoiced the sons of want and grief;
From him the streams of social friendship ran;
With generous pity, and with kind relief,
He traversed life in doing good to man.

O'er life's broad sea he spread his full blown sail,
Secure amid wild faction's stormy roar;
By wisdom guided, caught the flying gale,
And gained the port, eternal glory's shore.

Justly to celebrate his deathless praise,
No muse, like ours, can string her grateful lyre;
Nor even Pindar such bold notes could raise,
Nor to the sun on waxen wings aspire.

When in the field resistless Hector met,
To express he conquered, we but say he fought;
Suffice it then the ear of fond regret,
To tell that Bowdoin always nobly thought.

Sprung from a race, to nought but virtue born,
Advanced by industry to pomp and state;
Yet he, beholding these with eyes of scorn,
Rose above fame, and dared be truly great.

Long have we hoped kind Temperance would wield,
To guard her favourite, her defensive arms;
Around his honoured life would spread her shield,
And long secure him by its potent charms.

But, ah! fallacious hopes! Oh sweet deceit!
Dear, flattering dream, which partial Fancy wrought
In Friendship's loom, who, with fond pride elate,
Viewed the rich texture of illusive thought!

Imperial Reason, weeping o'er his fate,
Hurled from her empire, rules his breast no more.
Where is that voice, which saved a falling state,
Which charmed the world, and taught e'en foes t' adore?

When wintry time's tempestuous billows roar,
O'er the dark storm Death spreads his horrid wings;
Swept are proud empires from the foaming shore,
And beggars mingle in one grave with kings.

Where are the splendours of the Attick dome?
Where haughty Carthage, towering to the sky?
Where the tall columns of imperial Rome?
In the vile dust, where pride is doomed to lie.

Bowdoin, the glory and delight of all,
The prince of science, Misery's feeling friend,
Bedecked with blooming honours, too must fall,
And to the mansions of the grave descend.

Could human excellence, with power sublime,
Charm from barbarian Death's destructive hand
The ruthless scythe of all destroying Time,
Bowdoin were still the senate of the land.

But greatly smiling in his latest breath,
Like Phœbus blazing from his western throne,
His soul, unconquered, through the clouds of death
More radiant beamed, and more divinely shone.

Ye mournful friends, suppress the bursting tear;
Bowdoin is gone his native skies to claim:
Forgive the youth, who, weeping o'er his bier,
In this fond verse inscribes his sacred name.

University of Virginia Library

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF BOWDOIN.