| |
| FAR, far from hence be satire’s aspect rude, | |
| No more let laughter’s frolic-face intrude, | |
| But every heart be fill’d with deepest gloom, | |
| Each form be clad with vestments of the tomb. | |
| From Vernon’s sacred hill dark sorrows flow, | 5 |
| Spread o’er the land, and shroud the world in wo. | |
| From Mississippi’s proud, majestic flood, | |
| To where St. Croix meanders through the wood, | |
| Let business cease, let vain amusements fly, | |
| Let parties mingle, and let faction die, | 10 |
| The realm perform, by warm affection led, | |
| Funereal honors to the mighty dead. | |
| Where shall the heart for consolation turn, | |
| Where end its grief, or how forget to mourn? | |
| Beyond these clouds appears no cheering ray, | 15 |
| No morning star proclaims th’ approach of day. | |
| Ask hoary Age from whence his sorrows come, | |
| His voice is silent, and his sorrow dumb; | |
| Enquire of Infancy why droops his head, | |
| The prattler lisps—“great Washington is dead.” | 20 |
| Why bend yon statesmen o’er their task severe? | |
| Why drops yon chief the unavailing tear? | |
| What sullen grief hangs o’er yon martial band? | |
| What deep distress pervades the extended land? | |
| In sad responses sounds from shore to shore— | 25 |
| “Our Friend, our Guide, our Father is no more.” | |
| Let fond remembrance turn his aching sight, | |
| Survey the past, dispel oblivion’s night, | |
| By Glory led, pursue the mazy road, | |
| Which leads the traveller to her high abode, | 30 |
| Then view that great, that venerated name, | |
| Inscribed in sunbeams on the roll of Fame. | |
| No lapse of years shall soil the sacred spot, | |
| No future age its memory shall blot; | |
| Millions unborn shall mark its sacred fire, | 35 |
| And latest Time behold it and admire. | |
| A widow’d country! what protecting form | |
| Shall ope thy pathway through the gathering storm! | |
| What mighty hand thy trembling bark shall guide, | |
| Through Faction’s rough and overwhelming tide! | 40 |
| The hour is past—thy Washington no more | |
| Descries, with angel-ken, the peaceful shore. | |
| Freed from the terrors of his awful eye, | |
| No more fell Treason seeks a midnight sky, | |
| But crawling forth, on deadliest mischief bent, | 45 |
| Rears her black front, and toils with cursed intent. | |
| Behold! arranged in long, and black array, | |
| Prepared for conflict, thirsting for their prey, | |
| Our foes advance,—nor force nor danger dread, | |
| Their fears all vanish’d when his spirit fled. | 50 |
| Oft, when our bosoms, fill’d with dire dismay, | |
| Saw mischief gather round our country’s way; | |
| When furious Discord seized her flaming brand, | |
| And threatened ruin to our infant land; | |
| When faction’s imps sow’d thick the seeds of strife, | 55 |
| And aim’d destruction at the bliss of life; | |
| When war with bloody hand her flag unfurl’d, | |
| And her loud trump alarm’d the western world; | |
| His awful voice bade all contention cease, | |
| At his commands the storms were hush’d to peace. | 60 |
| But who can speak, what accents can relate, | |
| The solemn scenes which marked the great man’s fate! | |
| Ye ancient sages, who so loudly claim | |
| The brightest station on the list of Fame, | |
| At his approach with diffidence retire, | 65 |
| His higher worth acknowledge, and admire. | |
| When keenest anguish rack’d his mighty mind, | |
| And the fond heart the joys of life resign’d, | |
| No guilt, nor terror stretch’d its hard control, | |
| No doubt obscured the sunshine of the soul. | 70 |
| Prepared for death, his calm and steady eye, | |
| Look’d fearless upward to a peaceful sky; | |
| While wondering angels point the airy road, | |
| Which leads the Christian to the house of God. | |
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