LINES ADDRESSED TO MR. JEFFERSON,
On his retirement from the Presidency of the United States.—1809.
Praesenti tibi maturos largimur honores—Hor.
To you, great sir, our heartfelt praise we give,
And your ripe honors yield you—while you live.
At length the year, which marks his course, expires,
And Jefferson from public life retires;
That year, the close of years, which own his claim,
And give him all his honors, all his fame.
Far in the heaven of fame I see him fly,
Safe in the realms of immortality:
On Equal Worth his honor'd mantle falls,
Him, whom Columbia her true patriot calls;
Him, whom we saw her codes of freedom plan,
To none inferior in the ranks of man.
When to the helm of state your country call'd
No danger awed you and no fear appall'd;
Each bosom, faithful to its country's claim,
Hail'd Jefferson, that long applauded name;
All, then, was dark, and wrongs on wrongs accrued
Our treasures wasted, and our strength subdued;
What seven long years of war and blood had gain'd,
Was lost, abandon'd, squander'd, or restrain'd:
Britania's tools had schemed their easier way,
To conquer, ruin, pillage, or betray;
Domestic traitors, with exotic, join'd,
To shackle this last refuge of mankind;
Wars were provoked, and France was made our foe,
That George's race might govern all below,
O'er this wide world, uncheck'd, unbounded, reign,
Seize every clime, and subjugate the main.
All this was seen—and rising in your might,
By genius aided, you reclaim'd our right,
That Right, which conquest, arms, and valor gave
To this young nation—not to live a slave.
And what but toil has your long service seen?
Dark tempests gathering over a sky serene—
For wearied years no mines of wealth can pay,
No fame, nor all the plaudits of that day,
Which now returns you to your rural shade,
The sage's heaven, for contemplation made,
Who, like the Roman, in their country's cause
Exert their valor, or enforce its laws,
And late retiring, every wrong redress'd,
Give their last days to solitude and rest.
This great reward a generous nation yields—
Regret attends you to your native fields;
Their grateful thanks for every service done,
And hope, your thorny race of care is run.