O BEAR him where the rain can fall, | |
| And where the winds can blow; | |
| And let the sun weep o’er his pall | |
| As to the grave ye go! | |
| |
| And in some little lone churchyard, | 5 |
| Beside the growing corn, | |
| Lay gentle Nature’s stern prose bard, | |
| Her mightiest peasant-born. | |
| |
| Yes! let the wild-flower wed his grave, | |
| That bees may murmur near, | 10 |
| When o’er his last home bend the brave, | |
| And say—“A man lies here!” | |
| |
| For Britons honor Cobbett’s name, | |
| Though rashly oft he spoke; | |
| And none can scorn, and few will blame, | 15 |
| The low-laid heart of oak. | |
| |
| See, o’er his prostrate branches, see! | |
| E’en factious hate consents | |
| To reverence, in the fallen tree, | |
| His British lineaments. | 20 |
| |
| Though gnarl’d the storm-toss’d boughs that brav’d | |
| The thunder’s gather’d scowl, | |
| Not always through his darkness rav’d | |
| The storm-winds of the soul. | |
| |
| O, no! in hours of golden calm | 25 |
| Morn met his forehead bold; | |
| And breezy evening sang her psalm | |
| Beneath his dew-droop’d gold. | |
| |
| The wren its crest of fibred fire | |
| With his rich bronze compar’d, | 30 |
| While many a youngling’s songful sire | |
| His acorn’d twiglets shar’d. | |
| |
| The lark, above sweet tribute paid, | |
| Where clouds with light were riven; | |
| And true love sought his bluebell’d shade, | 35 |
| “To bless the hour of heaven.” | |
| |
| E’en when his stormy voice was loud, | |
| And guilt quak’d at the sound, | |
| Beneath the frown that shook the proud | |
| The poor a shelter found. | 40 |
| |
| Dead oak! thou livest. Thy smitten hands, | |
| The thunder of thy brow, | |
| Speak with strange tongues in many lands, | |
| And tyrants hear thee, now! | |
| |
| Beneath the shadow of thy name, | 45 |
| Inspir’d by thy renown, | |
| Shall future patriots rise to fame, | |
| And many a sun go down. | |
| |
