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HON. SILAS WRIGHT. 69 |
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When shall he rise ?
Not when near his grassy tomb Fond Affection sits in gloom; When the stifling sigh is heard, And the cold night air is stirr'd By the passionate tones that break From the heart to call him back—
Not then shall he awake
When shall he rise ?
When the blue heavens, like a scroll, Backward in their darkness roll; When the stars shall fall away, And the sun grow dark at day; When the trumpet's voice shall sound, Trembling far along the ground—
Then, then shall he awake.
1847.
HON. SILAS WRIGHT.
Bring no autumnal flowers, To scatter sadly o'er his silent bier; Hopes, hopes that grew in Freedom's sacred bowers,
We bind in darkness here !
And let no sable' pall— None, save the starry flag—his form enfold: Those.blazon'd stars around his dust shall fall
As its broad stripes unroll. |
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