Classic Poem

He loved his trees, his flowers, and the yields
Of lush green meadows, and the harvest fields.
The soul within him yearned for paths of peace.
His prayer was ever that grim war might cease,
That back once more, there in his vernal bowers,
He might enjoy the rest of tranquil hours,
And train his vines, and till his fertile lands
With his own hands;
That where the tocsin sounded there might swell
The mellow chimes of some cathedral bell
To summon man from toil.
For warlike spoil
He had no temper, yet at Duty's call
Wife, home, and flowers, peace and comfort, all
He sadly left lest Honor be undone,
Nor e'er knew rest again! O Washington,
No crown of gold alight with jewelled sheen
Adorns thy brow, but one as fresh and green
As were the scenes you loved — the laurel leaf,
The diadem of our Unselfish Chief!