Here you will find the Poem Henry Clay of poet Frances Ellen Watkins
Wail, winds of summer, as ye sweep The arching skies; O, let your echoes swell with deep, Woe-piercing cries! Old ocean, with a heavy surge, Cold, black and drear, Roll thou the solemn note of dirge On Europe's ear! Sweet stars, that calmly, purely bright, Look down below, O, pity with your eyes of light A Nation's woe! Thou source of day, that rollest on Though tempests frown, Thou mind'st us of another sun That has gone down! Gone down,--no more may mortal eye Its face behold! Gone down,--yet leaving on the sky A tinge of gold! Ah, yes! Columbia, pause to hear The note of dread; 'Twill smite like iron on the ear;-- Our Clay is dead! Our Clay; the patriot, statesman, sage, The Nation's pride, With giant minds of every age Identified! That form of manliness and strength In Senate hall, Is lying at a fearful length Beneath the pall! That voice of eloquence no more Suspends the breath; Its matchless power to charm is o'er-- 'Tis hushed in death! Thrice noble spirit! can we bow, And kiss the rod? With resignation yield thee now Back to thy God? And where, where shall we turn to find Now thou 'rt at rest, A soul so lofty, just and kind, As warmed thy breast? We bear thee, with a flood of tears, Unto thy tomb; There thou must sleep till rolling years Have met their doom! But thy bright fame and memory Shall send a chime From circling ages down to the Remotest time! O, may thy mantle fall on some Of this our day, And shed upon the years to come A happy ray!