Death of Ashmun
Why move the throng so slow?Why doth that lonely mother's tear
In sudden anguish flow?Why is that sleeper laid
To rest in manhood's pride?How gain'd his check such pallid shade?
I spake, - but none replied.
The hoarse wave murmur'd low,
The distant surges roar'd:And o'er the sea in tones of woe
A deep response was pour'dI heard sad Afric mourn
Upon her billowy strand,A shield was from her hand.
Ah! well I know the now,
Through foreign suns would traceDeep lines of death upon thy brow,
Thou friend of misery's race.Their leader when the blast
Of ruthless war swept by,Their teacher when the storm was past
Their guide to worlds on high.
Bent o'er the lowly tomb
Where thy soul'd idol lay,I saw thee rise above the gloom,
And hold thy changeless way;Stern sickness woke a flame
That on thy vigour fed,But deathless courage nerv'd the frame
When health and strength had fled.
Spirit of power, - pass on!
Thy homeward wing is free,Earth may not claim thee for her son,
She hath no chain for thee:Toil might not bow thee down,
Nor Sorrow check they race,Nor pleasure win thy birthright crown,
Got to thy own blest place!HARTFORD CON 1828 L.H.