Death of a Son of the late Honorable Fisher Ames

'Tis o'er. The bolt that rends the skyAnd rives the lordly tree,Doth scarcely work so strange a deedAs Death hath done for thee:And so we lay thee in the tomb,Son of a patriot line,Let not majestic manhood boastWho sees a grave like thine.

And She is there, that honor'd formO'er whom thy filial care,Did shed such hallow'd charm as madeLife's lonely winter fair;That mother mourns, whose hand so oftWithin this funeral shade,Hath with a meek, unchanging trustHer cherish'd idols laid.

We go the way their steps have trod,From love's forsaken bowers:Their simple shroud, their narrow house,Their lowly bed are ours;And in those mansions of the soulWhere tear was never shed,Doubt not there yet is room for us,For so the Saviour said.

Oh could we cheerfully to GodYield back the friends he gave,Or with such tear as Jesus shedBedew their peaceful grave,How pure from the Refiner's handThe spirits gold would rise,And Faith from transient sorrow gainNew fitness for the skies.