William McCarty, comp. The American National Song Book. 1842.
Elegiac OdeGeorge Richards
S
In all the pathos of impassion’d woe,
Mourn with their country, at the hero’s tomb,
And fire a world to emulation’s glow?
To deck the sod, where rest the good, the brave?
And shall the warrior, whom an empire loves,
Repose, unsung, unhonour’d in the grave?
Touch’d with her griefs, I sweep the plaintive lyre:
To her, to Greene, immortal strains belong:
An angel’s pencil, and a seraph’s fire.
Shall pour the tide of intellectual day,
And lead my footsteps to the hero’s shrine,
Were patriots guard and freemen watch the clay.
His soul, indignant, spurn’d the peaceful shade;
Instant he arm’d, to brave the lion’s roar,
And the keen terrors of the Highland blade.
The hardy yeomen of his native isle;
True sons of liberty; whom virtue bred,
Strong for the labours of Herculean toil.
Obscured the greatness of a noble mind;
He felt for all; the soldier at his side
Brought down the sweetest “milk of human kind.”
Sagacious, cool, amid the storm serene;
Heroes revered, applauding states approved,
And Albion trembled at the name of Greene.
Whilst round his head the watery torrent pour’d;
Thick clouds the curtains to his couch of rest,
Where the bleak wind and midnight hail-storm roar’d.
His banners flamed to meet the lightning’s glare,
In torrid realms of more than burning day;
Sad haunts of death, and plagues, and putrid air.
Written in blood on honour’s purple vest,
Shall gallant warriors, born of kindred soul,
With conscious pride and martial zeal attest.
To crush the savage on the warlike plain;
When to the south he wheel’d his conquering band,
And broke the iron of oppression’s chain.
His laurel wreaths shall ever verdant bloom;
And Trenton’s cypress shade the hero’s grave,
Whilst pensive Princeton mourns his early tomb.
Which bade his columns range, his squadrons form;
Ye saw his coursers snuff the embattled ground,
And Greene, triumphant, rule the vengeful storm.
See Brandywine the chieftain’s hearse attend;
And Germantown lament, and Monmouth robed in yew,
And Ashley’s waters wail their godlike friend.
Your meanest dust shall speak the hero’s praise:
Here bolted vengeance burst with tenfold rage,
And there he drove the lightning’s rapid blaze.
Or Guilford’s fields, where feats of bold emprise,
Proclaim the genius of the matchless man:
Through all the regions mark’d by azure skies.
Which check’d Cornwallis in his mid career:
With Tarleton’s sword, and Rawdon’s murderous steel,
And savage Balfour paled with guilty fear.
What, though no clarions swell to dire alarms,
And no proud chief, in pomp of burnish’d gold,
Leads on his troops in the bright glow of arms.
Of armies raised, unclothed, unfed, unpaid,
Who stood the summer’s heat, the winter’s gale,
Nor turn’d their bosoms from the tyrant’s blade.
When the shrill music, lengthening down the line,
Urged rank on rank, to try the dubious scene,
And combat hosts, by despots thought divine.
Thy task completed, smiling peace descends,
Hush’d is the din, and mute the trumpet’s blast,
And ardent warriors greet as ancient friends.
Too bright for earth, and fit for purer skies,
Celestial bards his mighty deeds resound,
Whilst thus, aloud, a prince of angels cries.
’Tis done! ’tis done! his time shall be no more!
Thou king of death, descend on wings of air,
And waft the hero to his native shore.”
His golden darts were tipp’d with sacred fire,
He rode the chariot of eternal day,
And, fleet as lightning, pass’d the applauding choir.
Resolved in death to boast supernal fame,
He mounted swift, lash’d on the burning car,
And tower’d sublime in robes of solar flame.
From heavenly harps was heard triumphant praise,
Which breathed thrice welcome to the climes above,
In the mild music of harmonious lays.
And this the voice which trumpets roll’d around:
“Go fix the hero’s throne on glory’s hill,
And be the chief by mightiest warriors crown’d.”
The great Montgomery throned the immortal Greene,
The gentle Mercer join’d the festive band,
And gallant Laurens graced the glorious scene.
Loud swell’d the notes to ecstasy divine;
And Spartan heroes, next in rank to gods,
Proclaimed, with Wolfe, the palm of merit thine.