Poems (Botta)/La Fayette

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The wail of France comes o’er the sea,— She mourns for thee, departed chief; And we, the children of the Free, Re-echo back the notes of grief.

Thy course was like the morning sun, That lights two worlds, the east and west; Thy brilliant, glorious race is run, Thou takest thine eternal rest.

Thy fame shall pass from age to age, From clime to clime, from sire to son; And History, on her glowing page, Shall write thy name with Washington.