HENRY CLAY.With voice and mien of stern controlHe stood among the great and proud,And words of fire burst from his soulLike lightnings from the tempest cloud;His high and deathless themes were crownedWith glory of his genius born,And gloom and ruin darkly frownedWhere fell his bolts of wrath and scorn.But he is gone—the free, the bold—The champion of his country’s right;His burning eye is dim and cold,And mute his voice of conscious might.Oh no, not mute—his stirring callCan startle tyrants on their thrones,And on the hearts of nations fallMore awful than his living tones.The impulse that his spirit gaveTo human thought’s wild, stormy sea,Will heave and thrill through every waveOf that great deep eternally;And the all-circling atmosphere,With which is blent his breath of flame,Will sound, with cadence deep and clear,In storm and calm, his voice and name.His words that like a bugle blastErst rang along the Grecian shore,And o’er the hoary Andes passed,Will still ring on for evermore.Great Liberty will catch the sounds,And start to newer, brighter life,And summon from Earth’s utmost boundsHer children to the glorious strife.Unnumbered pilgrims o’er the wave,In the far ages yet to be,Will come to kneel beside his grave,And hail him prophet of the free.’Tis holier ground, that lowly bedIn which his mouldering form is laid,Than fields where Liberty has bledBeside her broken battle-blade.Who now, in danger’s fearful hour,When all around is wild and dark,Shall guard with voice, and arm of power,Our freedom’s consecrated ark?With stricken hearts, Oh God, to Thee,Beneath whose feet the stars are dust,We bow, and ask that thou wilt beThrough every ill our stay and trust.
HENRY CLAY.With voice and mien of stern controlHe stood among the great and proud,And words of fire burst from his soulLike lightnings from the tempest cloud;His high and deathless themes were crownedWith glory of his genius born,And gloom and ruin darkly frownedWhere fell his bolts of wrath and scorn.But he is gone—the free, the bold—The champion of his country’s right;His burning eye is dim and cold,And mute his voice of conscious might.Oh no, not mute—his stirring callCan startle tyrants on their thrones,And on the hearts of nations fallMore awful than his living tones.The impulse that his spirit gaveTo human thought’s wild, stormy sea,Will heave and thrill through every waveOf that great deep eternally;And the all-circling atmosphere,With which is blent his breath of flame,Will sound, with cadence deep and clear,In storm and calm, his voice and name.His words that like a bugle blastErst rang along the Grecian shore,And o’er the hoary Andes passed,Will still ring on for evermore.Great Liberty will catch the sounds,And start to newer, brighter life,And summon from Earth’s utmost boundsHer children to the glorious strife.Unnumbered pilgrims o’er the wave,In the far ages yet to be,Will come to kneel beside his grave,And hail him prophet of the free.’Tis holier ground, that lowly bedIn which his mouldering form is laid,Than fields where Liberty has bledBeside her broken battle-blade.Who now, in danger’s fearful hour,When all around is wild and dark,Shall guard with voice, and arm of power,Our freedom’s consecrated ark?With stricken hearts, Oh God, to Thee,Beneath whose feet the stars are dust,We bow, and ask that thou wilt beThrough every ill our stay and trust.
HENRY CLAY.
With voice and mien of stern controlHe stood among the great and proud,And words of fire burst from his soulLike lightnings from the tempest cloud;His high and deathless themes were crownedWith glory of his genius born,And gloom and ruin darkly frownedWhere fell his bolts of wrath and scorn.But he is gone—the free, the bold—The champion of his country’s right;His burning eye is dim and cold,And mute his voice of conscious might.Oh no, not mute—his stirring callCan startle tyrants on their thrones,And on the hearts of nations fallMore awful than his living tones.The impulse that his spirit gaveTo human thought’s wild, stormy sea,Will heave and thrill through every waveOf that great deep eternally;And the all-circling atmosphere,With which is blent his breath of flame,Will sound, with cadence deep and clear,In storm and calm, his voice and name.His words that like a bugle blastErst rang along the Grecian shore,And o’er the hoary Andes passed,Will still ring on for evermore.Great Liberty will catch the sounds,And start to newer, brighter life,And summon from Earth’s utmost boundsHer children to the glorious strife.Unnumbered pilgrims o’er the wave,In the far ages yet to be,Will come to kneel beside his grave,And hail him prophet of the free.’Tis holier ground, that lowly bedIn which his mouldering form is laid,Than fields where Liberty has bledBeside her broken battle-blade.Who now, in danger’s fearful hour,When all around is wild and dark,Shall guard with voice, and arm of power,Our freedom’s consecrated ark?With stricken hearts, Oh God, to Thee,Beneath whose feet the stars are dust,We bow, and ask that thou wilt beThrough every ill our stay and trust.
With voice and mien of stern control
He stood among the great and proud,
And words of fire burst from his soul
Like lightnings from the tempest cloud;
His high and deathless themes were crowned
With glory of his genius born,
And gloom and ruin darkly frowned
Where fell his bolts of wrath and scorn.
But he is gone—the free, the bold—
The champion of his country’s right;
His burning eye is dim and cold,
And mute his voice of conscious might.
Oh no, not mute—his stirring call
Can startle tyrants on their thrones,
And on the hearts of nations fall
More awful than his living tones.
The impulse that his spirit gave
To human thought’s wild, stormy sea,
Will heave and thrill through every wave
Of that great deep eternally;
And the all-circling atmosphere,
With which is blent his breath of flame,
Will sound, with cadence deep and clear,
In storm and calm, his voice and name.
His words that like a bugle blast
Erst rang along the Grecian shore,
And o’er the hoary Andes passed,
Will still ring on for evermore.
Great Liberty will catch the sounds,
And start to newer, brighter life,
And summon from Earth’s utmost bounds
Her children to the glorious strife.
Unnumbered pilgrims o’er the wave,
In the far ages yet to be,
Will come to kneel beside his grave,
And hail him prophet of the free.
’Tis holier ground, that lowly bed
In which his mouldering form is laid,
Than fields where Liberty has bled
Beside her broken battle-blade.
Who now, in danger’s fearful hour,
When all around is wild and dark,
Shall guard with voice, and arm of power,
Our freedom’s consecrated ark?
With stricken hearts, Oh God, to Thee,
Beneath whose feet the stars are dust,
We bow, and ask that thou wilt be
Through every ill our stay and trust.