William McCarty, comp. The American National Song Book. 1842.
An Elegy on Lieut. De HartColonel David Humphreys (1752–1818)
W
With darkness and storms in his train,
Announcing the death of the year,
Despoil’d of its verdure the plain;
When horror congenial prevail’d,
Where graves are with fearfulness trod,
De Hart by his sister was wail’d,
His sister thus sigh’d o’er his sod:
Its flag of defiance unfurl’d:
He led to the storm the first ranks;
On them, iron tempests were hurl’d.
Transpierced was his breast with a ball—
His breast a red fountain supplied,
Which, gushing in waves still and small,
Distain’d his white bosom and side.
His hair, that so lavishly curl’d,
I saw, as he lay on the heath,
In blood, and with dew-drops impearl’d.
How dumb is the tongue, that could speak
Whate’er could engage and delight!
How faded the rose on his cheek!
Those eyes, how envelop’d in night!
All darken’d to us are now grown:
In far other orbits they roll,
Like stars to new systems when gone:
My brother, the pride of the plain,
In vain did the graces adorn;
His blossom unfolded in vain,
To die like the blossom of morn.
And tortured my bosom with sighs:
My brother, who fell ere his prime,
Forever is torn from my eyes.
To me, how distracting the storm
That blasted the youth in his bloom!
Alas, was so finish’d a form
Design’d for so early a tomb?
Their ruin ’tis mine to deplore—
Health, beauty, and youth were his own,
Health, beauty, and youth are no more.
No blessings of nature and art,
Nor music that charm’d in the song,
Nor virtues that glow’d in the heart,
Dear youth, could thy moments prolong!
Its youth and its charms for the boy;
With rapture all nature he view’d,
For nature he knew to enjoy.
But chiefly his country could charm:
He felt—’twas a generous heat—
With drums and the trumpet’s alarm,
His pulses in consonance beat.
Come weep o’er this sorrowful urn,
Come ease the full heart with a tear—
My hero will never return:
He died in the dawn of applause,
His country demanded his breath;
Go, heroes, defend the same cause,
Avenge with your country his death.”
The virgin in sorrow more fair;
In tears her blue eyes; and her locks
Of auburn flew loose on the air.
I heard, as I pass’d down the stream;
The guards of the foe were in view:—
To enterprise fired by the theme,
I bade the sweet mourner adieu.