Джон Пирпонт (John Pierpont)

Death of Charles Follen

O, not for thee weep;—we weep
For her, whose lone and long caress,
And widow's tears, from fountains deep,
Fall on the early fatherless.

'T is for ourselves we mourn;—we mourn
Our blighted hopes, our wishes crossed,
Thy strength, that hath our burdens borne,
Thy love, thy smile, thy counsels lost.

'T is for the slave we sigh:—we sigh
To think thou sleepest on a shore
Where thy calm voice and beaming eye
Shall plead the bondman's cause no more.

'T is for our land we grieve:—we grieve
That Freedom's fane, Devotion's shrine,
And Faith's fresh altar, thou should'st leave,
And they all lose a soul like thine.

A soul like thine—so true a soul,
Wife, friends, our land, the world must miss:
The waters o'er thy corse may roll,
But thy pure spirit is in bliss.

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