On an Icicle That Clung to the Grass of a Grave

8Or where the stern warrior, his country defending,

9Dares fearless the dark-rolling battle to pour,

10Or o'er the fell corpse of a dread tyrant bending,

11Where patriotism red with his guilt-reeking gore

12Plants Liberty's flag on the slave-peopled shore,

13With victory's cry, with the shout of the free,

14Let it fly, taintless Spirit, to mingle with thee.

15For I found the pure gem, when the daybeam returning,

16Ineffectual gleams on the snow-covered plain,

17When to others the wished-for arrival of morning

18Brings relief to long visions of soul-racking pain;

19But regret is an insult — to grieve is in vain:

20And why should we grieve that a spirit so fair

21Seeks Heaven to mix with its own kindred there?

22But still 'twas some Spirit of kindness descending

23To share in the load of mortality's woe,

24Who over thy lowly-built sepulchre bending

25Bade sympathy's tenderest teardrop to flow.

26Not for THEE soft compassion celestials did know,

27But if ANGELS can weep, sure MAN may repine,

28May weep in mute grief o'er thy low-laid shrine.

29And did I then say, for the altar of glory,

30That the earliest, the loveliest of flowers I'd entwine,

31Though with millions of blood-reeking victims 'twas gory,

32Though the tears of the widow polluted its shrine,

33Though around it the orphans, the fatherless pine?

34Oh! Fame, all thy glories I'd yield for a tear

35To shed on the grave of a heart so sincere.