Classic Poem

No sacred voice of Father land,
Like home familiar sooth'd his bed,
Nor ancient friend's best welcome hand
Raised his sick head.

From the bright home that gave him birth,
A pilgrim o'er the ocean wave,
He came, to find in other earth
A stranger's grave.

In his meridian blaze of fame,
With mind and heart and courage high,
Man's good his hope,—God's praise his theme,—
He came to die!

And they who stood in speechless woe,
To watch his spirit ebb away,
Warmed with that spirit's fervid glow
But yesterday!

So, like a dream, he came and died!
He rests not by the broad blue Rhone,—
Nor where the old Rhine's rushing tide
Utters its moan.

But o'er his grave the mellowing year
Shall throw a pall of glorious hue,
And manly sorrow's sacred tear
Wet it with dew.