Classic Poem

The kings of old have shrine and tomb
In many a minster's haughty gloom;
And green, along the ocean side,
The mounds rise where heroes died;
But show me, on thy flowery breast,
Earth! where thy nameless martyrs rest!

The thousands that, uncheer'd by praise,
Have made one offering of their days;
For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake,
Resign'd the bitter cup to take:
And silently, in fearless faith,
Bowing their noble souls to death.

Where sleep they Earth?—by no proud stone
Their narrow couch of rest is known;
The still sad glory of their name
Hallows no mountain unto Fame;
No—not a tree the record bears
Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers.

Yet haply all around lie strew'd
The ashes of that multitude:
It may be that each day we tread,
Where thus devoted hearts have bled;
And the young flowers our children sow,
Take root in holy dust below:

O that the many-rustling leaves,
Which round our homes the summer weaves,
Or that the streams, in whose glad voice
Our own familiar paths rejoice,
Might whisper through the starry sky,
To tell where those blest slumberers lie!

Would not our inmosThearts be still'd,
With knowledge of their presence fill'd,
And by its breathings taught to prize
The meekness of self-sacrifice?
—But the old woods and sounding waves
Are silent of those hidden graves.

Yet what if no light footstep there
In pilgrim-love and awe repair,
So let it be!—like him, whose clay
Deep buried by his Maker lay,
They sleep in secret,—but their sod,
Unknown to man, is mark'd by God!