William Bingham Tappan (1794–1849)

WHY weeps the muse, her glory fled?

Why droops Columbia’s genius so?

The laurel wreath is sere and dead;

Decatur’s gallant form is low!

Ye hoary warriors, hither bring

Your tribute to the kindred brave;

Ye beauteous maidens, haste, and fling

Your chaplets on Decatur’s grave.

Let those depart, who tear away

The wreath that marks a godlike soul;

Let those depart, who chide the lay,

And for one error blot the scroll—

Approach! ye generous, feeling, few,

Where selfishness can ne’er intrude;

Approach—Decatur’s grave bedew;

Sweet are the tears of gratitude!

The hero mingles with the dust,

But glory shrines his deathless fame;

The tomb receives its hallow’d trust,

But unborn ages breathe his name!

Yes, mighty dead! in every breast,

Thou still shalt live, to memory dear;

This turf, by virgin footsteps prest,

Shall witness Sorrow’s dewy tear!

Hither will Sympathy repair,

To deck her favourite’s early tomb;

While Charity, with aspect fair,

Will mantle thy untimely doom;

Farewell! the gem that hail’d thy morn,

Now sunk beneath the western sky,—

Will wake for thee a brighter dawn:

The star of glory ne’er can die!