Poem by 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.

1. The Temperance Crew
2. Away the Bowl
3. Plymouth Rock
4. Farewell the Bowl
5. The Cold Water Army

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