A wo-stricken people, in sorrow we gather!
The dawn of our glory, our hopes full in bloom
Are changed, with the face of our Chieftain, our Father,
To sable and cypress to hang round his tomb.
While pale in the shroud lies the Patriot sleeping,
A light, that for earth is no longer to burn,
Removed from its place, a sad nation is weeping;
And dark, where it shone, falls the shade of an urn.
When loud, through the land, hill and valley and mountain
Were sounding his name, and reflecting its beams,
The death-angel's wand opened griefs bitter fountain,
To quench their warm joys with its far-flowing streams.
Alas! that the spoiler so early must sever
A tie, which the hearts of a country had bound
To him, who is gone—who is gone, and forever,
To join the bright hosts who their Saviour surround!
Our Father in heaven, yet grant us another,
Like him, who has left us, as orphans, below!
O did not the Sage on his dear younger Brother,
When called to thy presence, his mantle bestow?
To Thee, who, from darkness, thy children hast stricken,
We cry with our wound, asking balm from the Tree,
Whose leaves heal the nations: Hear, hear us, and quicken
Our wandering feet to return unto Thee!