University of Virginia Library

To Mrs. Abbe Allen

ON HER REQUESTING A MONODY ON GEORGE CLINTON, FEBRUARY, 1812

As thus in careless mood I sung,
Its merry strains so sweetly rung,
Of playful glance, and witching smile,

---

229

And melting kiss, and wanton wile,
That, listening to the frolic lay,
I heeded not the dying day.
The setting sun was sinking low,
And fading fast the vivid glow,
That with such beauties decks the sky,
As passion gives to woman's eye;
One beam, that lingered in the west,
Danced on the billow's dimpled breast,
While eddies whirled in circling play,
And glinted back the golden ray.
It gave its line of emerald green
A flowing tint of crimson sheen,
And back reflected to the sky
The Tyrian purple's darker dye.

The moon no longer sweetly smiled,
And all was drear, and dark, and wild,
Save, now and then, a little beam
Between the passing clouds would stream,
And for a moment gild the dark,
Like meteor glow-worms' transient spark,
Whose silver rays are lightly thrown

---

230

On azure wave of mossy stone.
And here and there a lonely star,
Like taper twinkling from afar,
Gleamed faintly on some marble tomb,
And lit but did not cheer the gloom.
A weeping-willow bending near,
In solemn silence dropped the tear
Upon the peasant's lowly bier,
And on its bough, with dew-drops hung,
The idle harp of joy I flung.
Sudden in wistful murmur low,
Grief's pensive notes began to flow;
So mournful was the melody,
So sad, and yet so rude and free,
From sorrow's muse the numbers ran,
They ne'er were breathed by mortal man.
And slowly now the evening breeze
Was sighing through the willow-trees,
And lightly from the minstrel frame
In fitful starts the death-song came.
And now the note was sad and high,
Now soft and low as lover's sigh,
And now 'twas fierce as maniac's cry.
Hushed for a moment was the wail,
Then, borne upon the hollow gale,
A rude yet plaintive prelude ran,
And, wildly sad, the dirge began.

Oh, cold is the grave where the warrior sleeps,
And bitter the tears his country weeps.
Gloomy and dark doth the cypress wave,
And the chilly night-dew bespangles his grave.
The hero has gone to his lowly bed,
And patriots mourn for the mighty dead.

---

231

Ah, well may the tear bedim the eye,
And well may the bosom heave a sigh;
And well the sable trophies wave
O'er the hallowed tomb of the fallen brave;
For the champion of freedom has gone to his bier,
And the demons of woe are hovering near.

For his was the arm on the battle-field
The blood-stained sabre of death to wield;
And his was the voice in council hall
That hastened the haughty tyrant's fall.
But hushed is that voice, so open and bold,
And that valiant arm is stiffened and cold.

The standard of freedom he flung to the gale,
To float on the mountain and deck the vale;
He plucked a bright pearl from the ocean king,
And hung the gem on the eagle's wing.
But the glittering jewel is torn from its place,
And the banner is sullied with foul disgrace.

The gem of her rights from my country is torn,
And her banner is soiled, for wrongs are borne.
But had Clinton upreared the vengeful brand,
Had the reins been guided by Clinton's hand,
His arm had restored the jewel again,
And washed in their gore the deadly stain.

And his name shall not be like the meteor ray,
That gleams a moment and dies away;
For the diamond tears of beauty shall fall
On the blooming laurel that decks his pall.

---

232

And the lordly swell of the minstrel's lays,
Shall carry his name to distant days.