GREAT Soul, and brave, 'tis good to think of thee, And with a filial reverence raise the veil From patriot valor, that ne'er sought of Fame Her clarion-payment.
See we not again, The unfinished furrow, the forsaken home, The flying steed, urg'd by thy sleepless heart That throbb'd indignant o'er a smother'd found, The cry of Lexington?
That echoed cry
Rous'd a young nation from its lingering sleep
To rush against the force of tyrant power, Time-consecrated, and with fling and stone Defy the giant.
Bunker Hill records
Thy stern o'ermastery of the battle-storm, The deep memorial of thy dauntless deeds That bore the spirit of a trampled land, Through this red preface of her liberty.
Hark!—from the heaving of yon burial sods
Where sleep our Country's champions, comes a
Demanding for thy name its just reward
Too long withheld.—Of History it demands
That lingering truth should light her lettered scroll, And summons tardy man to set thy fame In sculptured marble, that recording stars May read it clearly from their silver thrones, And lisping children from its tablet learn What patriot virtue means.