DELIVERED AT AN EXHIBITION IN BROOKLYN, NOVEMBER , 1848.
All hail to thee, Brooklyn! With a rapture untold,
Our voices united thy beauties unfold,
Far, far on the night-breeze our numbers shall sweep,
While the Star-spirit looks on the foam-crested deep.
All hail to thee, Brooklyn! twin-sister and friend!
Thou City of Churches, whose tall spires ascend
And point to the home of the pure and the blest,
Where is hushed the wild throb of the care-stricken breast.
Events of the past to my mem'ry return,
And the patriot fire in my bosom doth burn;
The old Revolution rolls back its dread scenes,
And before me the sword of the Conqueror gleams.
But where are the captured, the wronged, the oppressed?
Their bones thou hast gathered, and laid them to rest.
Thy tears, lovely Brooklyn, still verdant shall keep
The grave where those heroes now quietly sleep.
I visit thy Greenwood; — how peaceful its shade.
I stand by the grave where a poet was laid; —
And read on the white sculptured marble, his name,
And his own simple lines, — oh, how touching the strain!
In life he was shunned, and despised was his worth —
But what to him now all the plaudits of Earth?
Death circled his brow, when he pillowed it there,
With a garland of fame which he deigned not to wear.
Poor M'Donald! Oh! scorn not the grave where he lies!
Poor M'Donald! in pity my spirit replies.
I turned from the spot, and in sadness I strayed
Where a stranger lay sleeping — a young Indian maid.
I heard the soft sound of the clear sylvan lake,
And the wild birds that love the dark grove to wake;
Oh, dearer, far dearer to me was their tone,
As it mingled its note with the wind's fitful moan.
All hail to thee, Brooklyn! now bear me away
To thy heights, where in grandeur yon wide-spreading bay
Reflects like a mirror the sun's golden light,
And the white sail is seen on its bosom so bright.
All hail to thee, Brooklyn! With a rapture untold,
Our voices united thy beauties unfold,
Far, far on the night-breeze our numbers shall sweep,
While the Star-spirit looks on the foam-crested deep.
All hail to thee, Brooklyn! twin-sister and friend!
Thou City of Churches, whose tall spires ascend
And point to the home of the pure and the blest,
Where is hushed the wild throb of the care-stricken breast.
Events of the past to my mem'ry return,
And the patriot fire in my bosom doth burn;
The old Revolution rolls back its dread scenes,
And before me the sword of the Conqueror gleams.
But where are the captured, the wronged, the oppressed?
Their bones thou hast gathered, and laid them to rest.
Thy tears, lovely Brooklyn, still verdant shall keep
The grave where those heroes now quietly sleep.
I visit thy Greenwood; — how peaceful its shade.
I stand by the grave where a poet was laid; —
And read on the white sculptured marble, his name,
And his own simple lines, — oh, how touching the strain!
In life he was shunned, and despised was his worth —
But what to him now all the plaudits of Earth?
Death circled his brow, when he pillowed it there,
With a garland of fame which he deigned not to wear.
Poor M'Donald! Oh! scorn not the grave where he lies!
Poor M'Donald! in pity my spirit replies.
I turned from the spot, and in sadness I strayed
Where a stranger lay sleeping — a young Indian maid.
I heard the soft sound of the clear sylvan lake,
And the wild birds that love the dark grove to wake;
Oh, dearer, far dearer to me was their tone,
As it mingled its note with the wind's fitful moan.
All hail to thee, Brooklyn! now bear me away
To thy heights, where in grandeur yon wide-spreading bay
Reflects like a mirror the sun's golden light,
And the white sail is seen on its bosom so bright.