Classic Poem

This is the place where André met that death
Whose infamy was keenest of its throes,
And in this place of bravely-yielded breath
His ashes found a fifty-years' repose;

And then, at last, a transatlantic grave,
With those who have been kings in blood or fame,
As Honor here some compensation gave
For that once forfeit to a hero's name.

But whether in the Abbey's glory laid,
Or on so fair but fatal Tappan's shore,
Still at his grave have noble hearts betrayed
The loving pity and regret they bore.

In view of all he lost—his youth, his love,
And possibilities that wait the brave,
Inward and outward bound, dim visions move
Like passing sails upon the Hudson's wave.

The country's Father! how do we revere
His justice,—Brutus-like in its decree—
With Andre-sparing mercy, still more dear
Had been his name—if that, indeed, could be!