Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/264

                                    For the might that clothed
The "Pater Patriæ," 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 reared Virginia's godlike chief—
Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch,
Whose first at waking, is your cradled son,
What though no high ambition prompts to rear
A second Washington; or leave your name
Wrought out in marble with a nation's tears
Of deathless gratitude—yet may you raise
A monument above the stars—a soul
Led by your teachings, and your prayers to God.