Religion’s fanes, with glittering golden spires,
And Mammon’s airy and embellished halls,
Wearing a modern freshness, are in sight,
But a cold glance they win from me alone.
Why do I turn from Art’s triumphant works,
To look on pile more humble? Why in thought
Linger around this ancient edifice?
The place is hallowed—Washington once trod,
Planning the fall of tyranny, these floors.
Within yon chamber did he bend the knee,