Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/218

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Where Mona's ancient foliage wept Or drear Stonehenge appall'd the gloom, Thy earthless root had fitter crept, Thy mystic garland better slept Than near a christian's tomb.

What though in tuneful Maro's lore* To Troy's sad chief thine aid was lent, Who dauntless trod the infernal shore Where proud and frowning shades of yore Their date of anguish spent,

Yet we, to Pluto's dreary coast, Passport to ask of thee, disdain,— We seek our hero mid the host Where wails no grim or guilty ghost, On heaven's unclouded plain.

See!—watchful o'er his honour'd clay, A nation sheds the filial tear, And pilgrims kneel, and patriots pray, And plants of glory drink the day, Why should 'st thou linger here?

In war, the laurel wove his crest, The olive deck'd his sylvan dome, The mournful cypress marks his rest, Rude Misletoe!—the Druid's guest, Hence!—find some fitter home.