William Bingham Tappan (1794–1849)

I SAW the hoary warrior-chief,

Whose sternly proud, but blighted form,

Proclaim’d him worn with bitter grief,

An oak amid the pelting storm.

Of those whose crimson tide imbrued

The fields where Albion’s glory fell;

Of those who oft undaunted stood,

When cannons peal’d the hero’s knell—

He was the last—the only head

Was his, that waved with wintry bloom;

Surviving all, for all had sped;

They slept in honour’s laurell’d tomb.

He gazed—alas! he gazed in vain,

To meet the comrades of his toil;

Copatriots on the gory plain,

Companions in the victor spoil.

All, all around was sad and drear,

And naught could grief of years beguile;

For him, condolence had no tear,

For him, affection wore no smile.

I saw—and, lo! the warrior slept;

The war-worn veteran joined the brave;

The genius of Columbia wept,

And freedom’s wreath bedeck’d his grave.