Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/94

90 Methinks even now, amid yon garden-shades, Or on the margin of his lilied lake, Sage Winthrop walks, our old colonial sire, Musing how best to advance his country's weal. On his broad forehead sits the conscious thought Of power unmixed with pride, and that pure warmth Of patriotism, which nerved him to endure Toil and privation, for the infant State That well his wisdom ruled. See, rosy beams Kindle around the pleasant home, where dwelt The saintly Huntington, in danger tried, The firm in battle, and the fond of peace. High in the friendship of Mount Vernon's chief, He walked in meekness, on to life's decline, Seeking that honor which from God doth come, And hath its crown above the starry skies. But ah! the slant rays tint a lowly grave, Where rests the tuneful bard, by nature loved. Brainard! the echoes of thy spirit-lyre Do warn us hither, and we fain would sit Beside thy pillow, and commune with thee. O, gentle friend! the autumnal dews are chill Upon thy grassy bed, and the frail flowers, Whose saddened hearts are ominous of ill, Cling closely there, as if they knew that thou, Like them, didst feel an early frost and die. Tet art thou of that band that cannot die. Thou hast a dwelling with us, and thy words