Burial of Ashmun, at New-Haven, Aug. 1828

Whence is yon sable bier?Why move the throng so slow?Why doth that lonely mother's tearIn bursting anguish flow?Why is the sleeper laidTo rest in manhood s pride?How gain'd his cheek such pallid shade?I ask'd, but none replied.

Then spake the hoarse wave low,The vexing billow sigh'd,And blended sounds of bitter woeCame o'er the echoing tide,

I heard sad Afric mournUpon her sultry strand,A buckler from her bosom torn,An anchor from her hand.

Beneath her palm-trees' shade,At every cabin-door,There rose a weeping for the friendWho must return no more,Her champion when the blastOf ruthless war swept by,Her guardian, when the storm was past,Her guide to worlds on high.

Rest! wearied form of clay!Frail, ruin'd temple, rest!Thou could'st not longer bear the swayOf an immortal guest,Where high, yon classic dome,Uprears its ancient head,We give thee welcome to a home,Amid our noblest dead.

Spirit of Power, pass on!Thy upward wing is free,Earth may not claim thee for her son,She hath no charm for thee,Toil might not bow thee down,Nor Sorrow check thy race,Nor Pleasure steal thy birthright crown,Go to thine own blest place.