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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