STANZAS[170]
Upon the Same Subject with the Preceding
The chief who freed these suffering lands
From Britain's bold besieging bands,
The hero, through all countries known,—
The guardian genius of his own,
Is gone to that celestial bourne
From whence no traveller can return,
Where Scipio and where Trajan went;
And heaven reclaims the soul it lent.
Each heart with secret wo congeals;
Down the pale cheek moist sorrow steals,
And all the nobler passions join
To mourn, remember, and resign.
O ye, who carve the marble bust
To celebrate poor human dust,
And from the silent shades of death
Retrieve the form but not the breath,
Vain is the attempt by force of art
To impress his image on the heart:
It lives, it glows, in every breast,
And tears of millions paint it best.
Indebted to his guardian care,
And great alike in peace and war,
The loss they feel these States deplore,—
Their friend—their father—is no more.
What will they do to avow their grief?
No sighs, no tears, afford relief:
Dark mourning weeds but ill express
The poignant wo that all confess;
Nor will the monumental stone
Assuage one tear—relieve one groan.
O Washington! thy honor'd dust
To parent nature we entrust;
Convinced that your exalted mind
Still lives, but soars beyond mankind,
Still acts in virtue's sacred cause,
Nor asks from man his vain applause.