ON THE DEATH OF
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE,
OF NEW YORK, SEPT., 1820.
“The good die first,
And they, whose hearts are dry as summer dust,
Burn to the socket.”
reen be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.
Tears fell when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.
When hearts, whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth;
And I who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
