Remonstrance to Macaulay, on Attacking the Memory of W. Penn

Macaulay ! Envy's self must praise
Tlie spirit of thy Roman " Lays,''
None cheer'd more heartily than I
When the triumphal car roll'd by,
Follow'd by songs which well become
The chaste and stately Muse of Rome.

Why drawest thou a gall-black pen
Across the face of quiet men ?
Deserves he this who mildly taught
That some are brave yet never fought,
Who dared mid fiercest hordes to stand
With open breast and open hand.
He show'd them what their soil could bear
Better than tomahawk and spear ;
That the Great Spirit, lord of all
More gladly hears the widow's call
Than cruelly exultant yell
Shaking the very gate of Hell.

Macaulay ! let one hero rest
By millions after millions blest.