I ROAMED where Thames Ocean's breast doth cheer, Pouring from crystal urn, the waters sheen, What time dim twilight's silent step was near, And gathering dews impearled the margin green; Yet, though mild autumn with a smile serene Had gently fostered summer's lingering bloom, Methought strange sadness brooded o'er the scene, -- While the lone river, murmuring on in gloom, Deplored its sweetest bard, laid early in the tomb. His soul for friendship formed, sublime, sincere, -- Of each ungenerous deed his high disdain, Perchance the cold world scanned with eye severe; -- Perhaps his harp her guerdon failed to gain; -- But Nature guards his fame, for not in vain He sang her shady dells, and mountains hoar, -- King Philip's billowy bay repeats his name, To its gray tower, -- and with eternal roar Niagara bears it on to the far-echoing shore. Each sylvan haunt he loved, -- the simplest flower That burned Heaven's incense in its bosom fair, The crested billow with its fitful power, -- The chirping nest, that claimed another's care, -- All woke his worship, as some altar rare Or sainted shrine doth win the pilgrim's knee; -- And he hath gone to rest, where earth and air Lavish their sweetest charms, -- while loud and free Sounds forth the wind-swept harp of his own native sea. His country's brave defenders, few and gray, By penury stricken, with despairing sighs, -- He nobly sang, and breathed a warning lay Lest from their graves a withering curse should rise: But now, where pure and bright, the peaceful skies And watching stars look down, on Groton's height, Their monument attracts the traveller's eyes, Whose souls unshrinking took their martyr-flight, When Arnold's traitor-sword fished out in fiendish might. Youth with glad hand her frolic germs had sown, And garlands clustered round his manly head, -- Those garlands withered, -- and he stood alone While on his cheek the gnawing hectic fed, -- And chilling death-dews o'er his temple spread: -- But on his soul a quenchless star arose, Whose hallowed beams their brightest lustre shed When the dimmed eye to its last pillow goes, -- lie followed where it led, and found a saint's repose. And now, farewell! -- The rippling stream shall hear No more the echo of thy sportive oar; Nor the loved group, thy father's halls that cheer, Joy in the magic of thy presence more; -- Long shall their tears thy broken lyre deplore: -- Yet cloth thine image, warm and deathless, dwell With those who love the minstrel's tuneful lore, -- And still thy music, like a treasured spell, Thrills deep within our souls. Lamented bard, farewell! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE PEACOCK OF FRANCE by MARIANNE MOORE GOLIATH AND DAVID by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES THE LOVE OF CHRIST WHICH PASSETH KNOWLEDGE by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI S. BARNABIE by JOSEPH BEAUMONT PAUPER PETE'S SONG by MATHILDE BLIND THE SURVIVAL by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN MUSIC TO ME by ADELE SHAW BOONE HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 46 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |