To Walter Savage Landor

Like leaves from Autumn's bough, Old Friend,
Our ripest hopes depart;
There's little left us now, Old Friend,
To cheer the Patriot's heart.
The Altars where we knelt, Old Friend,
Grow desolate and cold,
And faint is the faith we felt, Old Friend,
P the valiant days of old.

In bloody shrouds they sleep, Old Friend,
Who could not live as slaves:
The living only weep, Old Friend,
A bove their Martyrs' graves!
Freedom hath many a wound, Old Friend,
And, ring'd by hounds of hell,
She wraps her purple round, Old Friend,
To fall as Csesar fell.

The men of blood prevail, Old Frknd,
And, stricken in the night,
The people's weeping wail, Old Friend,
Goes praying for the light.
And yet their day shall come, Old Friend,
Though we may never hear
The shouts of Harvest-home, Old Friend,
Nor see the golden year.