[Footnote 1: Written soon after his death.]
Start not, great spirit of the mighty dead!
No sneering cynic comes with fiendish tread,
To mock the laurels of thy honored brow,
And ask,--where lies thy strength or glory now?
No snarling critic, jackal-like, to brave
The fearful lion, nerveless in his grave,
Whose living look had shrunk his trembling form,
As craven creatures crouch before the storm:
No saintly, sinning bigot vents his spite
For crimes exposed, or horrors brought to light;
No puppy-patriot, peculator bold,
Would bark at thee, for sneering at his gold:
No spaniel dog, to gain a master's smile,
Would crunch thy bones, thy hallowed grave defile;
No smiling sycophant, or grovelling hind,
Whose soul succumbs beneath a mastermind:
No little gatherer of great men's words,
No album-filling fool of flowers and birds,
Or autographic-maniac now weeps
In sickly sympathy, where Randolph sleeps.
Bereaved Virginia's voice majestic calls
In mournful wailings from her fun'ral halls,
"Whose strength shall terror strike? Whose voice shall charm?
Who wound, or win, the wretch who wills me harm?
Since thy great soul hath left its feeble frame,
My only pride is thy undying name;
My sun hath set in parting glory bright,
My Randolph's dead, my shores are wrapt in night.
Oh choose,--great spirit, from my blood alone,
Some worthy one, with genius like thine own;
Lest prophets false, my gallant sons deceive,--
To him, Elisha-like, thy mantle leave."