Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. 'Twere better I should cease; Although myself could almost take The place of him that sleeps in peace. Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace: While the stars burn, the moons increase, Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Sleep full of rest from head to feet; Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose, The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will; A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom broadens slowly down From precedent to precedent: Where faction seldom gathers head, But by degrees to fullness wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread. Should banded unions persecute When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute; Tho' Power should make from land to land The name of Britain trebly greatTho' every channel of the State Should almost choke with golden sand Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, The palms and temples of the South. Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet. There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind. Then stept she down thro' town and field And part by part to men reveal'd Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down, Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, And, King-like, wears the crown: N |