One holds you more than mortal kind,
One holds you all ethereal mind,
This puts you in your saviour's seat,
That makes you dreadful in retreat.
One says you are become a star,
One makes you more resplendent, far;
One sings, that, when to death you bow'd,
Old mother nature shriek'd aloud.
We grieve to see such pens profane
The first of chiefs, the first of men.—
To Washington—a man—who died,
As abba father well applied?
Absurdly, in a frantic strain,
Why ask him not for sun and rain?—
We sicken at the vile applause
That bids him give the ocean laws.
Ye patrons of the ranting strain,
What temples have been rent in twain?
What fiery chariots have been sent
To dignify the sad event?—
O, ye profane, irreverent few,
Who reason's medium never knew:
On you she never glanced her beams;
You carry all things to extremes.
Shall they, who spring from parent earth,
Pretend to more than mortal birth?
Or, to the omnipotent allied,
Control his heaven, or join his side?
O, is there not some chosen curse,
Some vengeance due, with lightning's force
That far and wide destruction spreads,
To burst on such irreverent heads!
Had they, in life, be-praised him so,
What would have been the event, I know
He would have spurn'd them, with disdain,
Or rush'd upon them, with his cane.
He was no god, ye flattering knaves,
He own'd no world, he ruled no waves;
But—and exalt it, if you can,
He was the upright, Honest Man.