186 THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON.
Thou didst not deem it woman's part to waste Life in inglorious sloth to sport awhile Amid the flowers, or on the summer wave, Then fleet, like the ephemeron, away, Building no temple in her children's hearts, Save to the vanity and pride of life Which she had worshipp'd.
For the might that clothed The " Pater Patriae," for the glorious deeds That make Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca shrine For all the earth, what thanks to thee are due, Who, 'mid his elements of being, wrought, We know not Heaven can tell.
Rise, sculptured pile ! And show a race unborn who rests below, And say to mothers what a holy charge Is theirs with what a kingly power their love Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind. Warn them to wake at early dawn and sow Good seed before the world hath sown her tares ; Nor in their toil decline that angel bands May put the sickle in, and reap for God, And gather to his garner.
Ye, who stand,
With thrilling breast, to view her trophied praise, Who nobly rear'd Virginia's godlike chief Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch,
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