William Bingham Tappan (1794–1849)

HE died,—he fell in the winter of years,

On the couch of the tomb he hath pillow’d his head;

And fled hath sorrow, and fled have fears,

For sorrow and fears dwell not with the dead.

On the green-hill side they made his grave;

There the oak, the tree of his country grows:

His bed is holy—’tis the bed of the brave,

His slumber is calm—’tis the warrior’s repose.

And sweet be thy visions, thy slumbers profound,

And bright be the halo that circles thy brow;

In the thickest of battle thy place was found,

The wreath is deathless that decks thee now.

To thy country the prime of thy manhood was given,

Mid the foremost thy shining sword was drawn;

Thou stoodst a pillar—approving Heaven

Beheld, and put the foe to scorn.

When the palsy of years had scathed thy form,

And thy head was crown’d with the snow of age;

When poverty came, thou met’st the storm,

And in greatness of soul defied its rage.

The traveller sought thy desolate cot,

And he wept o’er the wreck of valour there;

The fire of youth had left thee not,

Thy country, thy idol, was still thy prayer.

Adieu to the dead!—the spirits of those

Who soar’d on the battle, see! they vanish away;

The warriors have gone to the land of repose,

Our fathers, our fathers!—O, where are they?