Chantrey's Washington
Grave, — grand, — sublime! Thy simple majesty,
Dead Father of the people, still is here:
So, o'er a thraldom-shackled hemisphere,
Did'st thou look forth ere while, till it was free!
The gorgeous East might send her kings to thee,
And throned monarchs, sitting by the West,
Might come to bow their faces, nor divest
Old hoary thrones of ancient dignity, —
Lord of thyself in strength severe of soul!
Thy form stands rescued from oblivion's dust,
And Freedom's watchword now, from pole to pole,
The name is with the wise, the brave, the just.
But thou did'st hold virtue and fame in fee,
And so, thy glory, boundless and sublime,
Doth scorn the feeble limits of all time,
Wrought in the tissue of Eternity!
Dead Father of the people, still is here:
So, o'er a thraldom-shackled hemisphere,
Did'st thou look forth ere while, till it was free!
The gorgeous East might send her kings to thee,
And throned monarchs, sitting by the West,
Might come to bow their faces, nor divest
Old hoary thrones of ancient dignity, —
Lord of thyself in strength severe of soul!
Thy form stands rescued from oblivion's dust,
And Freedom's watchword now, from pole to pole,
The name is with the wise, the brave, the just.
But thou did'st hold virtue and fame in fee,
And so, thy glory, boundless and sublime,
Doth scorn the feeble limits of all time,
Wrought in the tissue of Eternity!
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