John Trumbull

This was he Whose shaft of wit had touch'd the epic strain With poignant power. The Father of the Harp In his own native vales. He seems to muse As if those loved retreats did spread themselves Again before his eye. The sighing wind Through the long branches of those ancient trees When first his boyhood lisp'd the love of Song Doth lull his soul. There brighter visions gleam, A sound of music rises. 'Tis thy voice Connecticut As when by vernal rains Surcharged, it swells in tuneful murmurs round The vine-clad mansion where his children grew. But the hoarse clangor of yon mighty Lakes Holding high conflict with the winged Storm Doth quell its melody. And is it so That in the feebleness of four-score years Thou with unshrinking hand didst pitch thy tent Near the broad billows of the Michigan And mark in that far land young life start forth In beauty and in vigor and in power Where erst the Indian, and the Panther dwelt Sole lords. It was a bold emprize To change the robe of science and of mistrelsy Worn from thy cradle onward For the staff of the strong emigrant.

Master and friend; until this feeble lyre In silence moulders, till my heart forgets The thrill of gratitude, the love of song, The praise of knowledge, shall thine image dwell Bright with the beauty of benignant age In my soul's temple-shrine!