Francis Hopkinson

John Swanwick?, "To the Memory of Francis Hopkinson, esq." American Museum [Philadelphia] 9 (Appendix, 1791) 39-40.

Sweet spring, advance, and deck with flow'rets gay,
The tomb where Hopkinson's remains are laid,
Ye muses, there your constant vigils pay,
And guard from ills the consecrated shade.

Ye city trees, protect your patron's grave,
He once from ruin sav'd your leafy charms,
Then to his honour, bid your green tops wave,
And fold his urn in your embracing arms.

Around the sod may roses ever bloom,
And lilies pour their aromatic tide;
There oft the lyre th' elegiac task assume,
And some, like his, be offer'd at his side—

Notes such as once he pour'd at Bremner's urn,
Lays such as those he offer'd at his shrine,
But ah, what muse can make a just return,
For lays so mournful, or a note so fine!

Lost to his country is that sprightly vein,
That arch wit, that grac'd his classic pen.
He now assumes a more exalted strain,
And quits for angels the pursuits of men.

In those bright realms, where patriot shades repose,
He joins his Franklin, gone not long before;
There nature all her mystic wonders shows,
There opens all her variegated store.

From those high orbs he sees with rapture rise,
The roof he labour'd when on earth t' erect;
And as its turrets reach their distant skies,
His guardian genius shall the frame protect.

Adieu, sweet bard, long may thy mem'ry live,
Thy country, grateful, long thy merits own:
This artless verse is all a friend can give;
'Tis for that country to erect the stone.