But long shall memory speak his praise, and mark the grave that blest,
When eighty years had crowned his days, he laid him down to rest;
The stone that marks the sylvan spot, the line that tells his name,
The stream, the shore; be ne'er forgot, and freedom's be his fame.
'Twas liberty that fired him first, when kings and tyrants plan'd,
And proud oppression's car accurst, drove madly o'er the land;
And long he lived when that red car--the driver and the foe
Unhorsed in fight, o'ermatched in war--laid impotent and low.
He told his children oft the tale--how tyrants would have bound,
And murderous yells filled all the vale, and blood begrimed the ground.
They loved the story of the harms that patriot hands repelled,
And glowed with ire of wars and arms, and fast the words they held.
The right, the power, the wealth, the fame, for which the valiant fought,
Have long been ours in deed and name--life, liberty, and thought;
And while we hold these blessings, bought with valor, blood, and thrall,
Embalmed in thought be those who fought and freely periled all.
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