Honor the worthy dead,
Strew flowers on her bier,
And to the memory of a friend,
O lend a tender tear!
Upon her native soil,
She saw with throbbing pains,
The weary bondmen driven afield,
In manacles and chains.
Then, with her kindled pen,
For justice did she plead,
And light the torch of sentiment,
That every bondman freed.
Hers was the fame afar,
The homage of the free,
The gifts of Fortune and a name
Of immortality.
And when her days of toil
Were numbered o'er in peace,
And the warm fountain of her pen
Had bid its flow to cease;
When thy sure shaft, O Death!
But touched her mortal frame,
Her soul, to its Redeemer, rose,
And left this world of shame.