Freedom he found an heirloom from his sires; Song, letters, statecraft, shared his years in turn; All went to feed the nation's altar-fires Whose mourning children wreathe his funeral urn. He loved New England,--people, language, soil, Unweaned by exile from her arid breast. Farewell awhile, white-handed son of toil, Go with her brown-armed laborers to thy rest. Peace to thy slumber in the forest shade! Poet and patriot, every gift was thine; Thy name shall live while summers bloom and fade, And grateful Memory guard thy leafy shrine!