washington's hair.
19
That hand that bore his country's sword,
By foeman feared, by friend adored.
And now a nation's shouts ascend,
To their deliverer, father, friend.
Haply, for he was gentle, meek,
A tear of joy has dewed his cheek;
And, haply, while it lingered there.
The sacred drop has touched this hair.
Now it assumes a darker shade;
The color deepens but to fade:
Thus autumn leaves more brightly glow,
Thus joys still brighten as they go.
A nation's groans now rend the skies;—
The father of his country dies.
Think that, when on his dying bed,
This hair adorned his sacred head;
Perhaps, when yielding up his breath,
The cold, chill, dewy damp of death
Has bathed it, ere affection can,
(As though it were a talisman,)
With holy awe and tearful zeal,
The precious relic, trembling, steal.
The temple is decayed and gone,
Where dwelt the soul of Washington:
The smallest fragment that remains,
That consecration still retains.
Affection casts a lustre round
The meanest trifle of the ground;
By foeman feared, by friend adored.
And now a nation's shouts ascend,
To their deliverer, father, friend.
Haply, for he was gentle, meek,
A tear of joy has dewed his cheek;
And, haply, while it lingered there.
The sacred drop has touched this hair.
Now it assumes a darker shade;
The color deepens but to fade:
Thus autumn leaves more brightly glow,
Thus joys still brighten as they go.
A nation's groans now rend the skies;—
The father of his country dies.
Think that, when on his dying bed,
This hair adorned his sacred head;
Perhaps, when yielding up his breath,
The cold, chill, dewy damp of death
Has bathed it, ere affection can,
(As though it were a talisman,)
With holy awe and tearful zeal,
The precious relic, trembling, steal.
The temple is decayed and gone,
Where dwelt the soul of Washington:
The smallest fragment that remains,
That consecration still retains.
Affection casts a lustre round
The meanest trifle of the ground;
