American Watchman

POETICAL SELECTIONS

The following pretty lines from the National Intelligencer,
forcibly remind us of those upon the death of Sir John
Moore, which went the rounds of the papers some time
since. The imitation is good, and it is to that very ex-
cellence we object; servility of imitation is a fault urged
against the major part of our Poetry.

THE FUNERAL OF COL. TRIMBLE,
Late of the Senate of the U. S. from the state of Ohio,

His body they bore to the warrior's grave—
The morning sun splendidly beaming :
The hearse mov'd slow, and war plumes wav'd,
And sabres and muskets were gleaming.

The cold winds blew, but he heeded them not;
The sleep of the grave he was sleeping;
The wise and the great of the nation were there,
And his country around him was weeping.

The trumpets peal'd loud, and the death drum beat,
And the march was the march of devotion ;
And deep as the musketry roll'd o'er his grave,
Not a heart but throbb'd high with emotion.

For. Oh! he died in the glow of his years,
In the pride and the bloom of his glory;
But long shall his mem'ry emblazon with fame
The brightest page of our martial story

The winter shall pass, and the spring flowers bloom
By the banks & the groves of his own native river ;
Weep, Parent of Trimble! He ne'er shall return!
By the wave of Potomac he's sleeping for ever.

But he sleeps with the great—and sweet be his sleep,
And hush'd be the requiem of sorrow !
His star has gone down like the sun hid in storms;
To arise in new glory to-morrow.