A wo-stricken people, in sorrow we gather! The dawn of our glory, our hopes full in bloom Are changed, with the face of our Chieftain, our Father, To sable and cypress to hang round his tomb. While pale in the shroud lies the Patriot sleeping, A light, that for earth is no longer to burn, Removed from its place, a sad nation is weeping; And dark, where it shone, falls the shade of an urn. When loud, through the land, hill and valley and mountain Were sounding his name, and reflecting its beams, The death-angel's wand opened griefs bitter fountain, To quench their warm joys with its far-flowing streams. Alas! that the spoiler so early must sever A tie, which the hearts of a country had bound To him, who is gone--who is gone, and forever, To join the bright hosts who their Saviour surround! Our Father in heaven, yet grant us another, Like him, who has left us, as orphans, below! O did not the Sage on his dear younger Brother, When called to thy presence, his mantle bestow? To Thee, who, from darkness, thy children hast stricken, We cry with our wound, asking balm from the Tree, Whose leaves heal the nations: Hear, hear us, and quicken Our wandering feet to return unto Thee! DIRGE FOR FELICIA HEMANS. They hovered around her, an angel band: They listened her notes to hear. The voice was one of their own bright land; But stained was the harp in their sister's hand, With marks of the falling tear. They saw she had wreathed it with deathless flowers; While many a beauteous leaf, That looked like the growth of their heavenly bowers, Was pale with the shade of her darksome hours, Or wet with the dews of grief. Then gently from under her hand they took Her harp, and laid it aside: The tremulous chords, at her parting look And the farewell sweep of her fingers, shook, And snapped as her numbers died. The angels had whispered of joys above, And wooed her with them to soar, Till spreading her wings like a peaceful dove, Her spirit arose for a world of love To wander on earth no more. BRITANNIA, drop thy heaviest tear! O weep! it will be forgiven, That, fain we had kept in her bondage here A soul so pure, and a voice so dear Had longer withheld from heaven. SHE DIED, AS DAWNED HER NATAL DAY. She died, as dawned her natal day! Amid the buds and flowers of May Her spirit left the beauteous clay, In death's deep slumber here; And mounting up her starry way, Attained that holier sphere, Where falls no night o'er birth-day light-- No sorrow brings a tear.