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MACON TELEGRAPH
JANUARY I. 1828,
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Kind Friend* !—To feeling ever true,
1 pay o tribute justly due—■
For worth departed, scarce the tear
If dry which tell upon ms bier,
Who erst was wont our hearts to cheer.
Was pleased our conduct to commend,
And bade us bail him as a Friend.
TALBOT, farewell! The breath of Fame
Which tells the world a Hero’s name,
Is but a momentary glow—
Which shoots across the aching breast.
And leaves the spirit to her rest.
But when the ruthless hand of Death,
Relentless tyrant! claims the breath
Of those we love, he leaves a wound
For which a balm can scarce be found.
A people's love hangs o’er thine urn,
And there doth sacred Friendship mourn t;
And purer tears did never flow,
To consecrate the hour of wo. *
Then rest, lov’d siiadz! thy funeral knell
Re-echoes still a fond farewell I .
A meteor flash—a transient throe,
Speed ! Gaffer Time—speed on thy way—
Thou’st brought another New Year's Day:
And, to thy credit be it said,
With few distresses on thy head.
True, thou hast harp’d on themes of war;
But, like tho storm which rolls afar,
They only murmured on the car,
Just but to flash—then disappear.
And sure the Minstrel thinks (bat now
There’s no “ foul murders” on thy brow,
To make an Empire play the fool,
And "push” a Monarch from his “stool.”
But what to us are Kings and Thrones ?—
The Land where rest our fathers* bones,
Where sleep tho many nameless brave,
Whose blood has tinged the shore or wave—
Is to Remembrance doubly dear,
When Time brings round the circling year.
Shades of the Brave ! whom time nor place
Can never from the heart erase—
O 1 if from realms of purest light,
In holy lustre beaming bright,
You view the Land your valor saved,
And mark the boon your offspring craved,
Sure in your own, your native heaven,
A greater joy can scarce be given.
Of Heroes who have fought and died—
A nation’s love—a nation’s pride,
The Muso might tell—but O ! the tear
Which falls upon tho Hero’s bier,
Must e’er in solemn silence flow,
For sacred are tho tears of wo! , r
Farewell! a last farewell 1 ye Brave,
Whoso “spangled banner" o’er the wave.
Told to the foe your Country’s Name,
And wedded to her own your fame.
But truce to such a serious strain—
And though net measure “light and vain,”
On this blest day tho pen employ,
The Poet can but wish you joy.
And joy for what ? why, joy that still
We're governed by the people’s will !
Joy, that no base, tyrannic knave,
Has dared our country, to ehslave:
Joy, that our rights are still secure,
The blessings of the rich and poor.
And 0 ! forever may the seal-’ •
Which guards our muchloved country’s weal,
The boon our glorious Fathors won,
Still fervent pass from sire to son!
I might descant on foreign themes—
Ou politicians’ idle dreams—
Or speak of Europo’s Kings.and Courts—
Of Turkey’s Despot’s savage hordes—
But these to other pens I’ll leave,
f* *******
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