University of Virginia Library

THE TWO GEORGES:

A Dialogue of the Dead.

Guelph.
Where's my wig!—wig!—the little close-crimp'd style—
Powder and pig-tail—cock'd-hat with low crown;
Brown coat and waistcoat, brown smalls, stockings brown—
Shoe-buckles, knee-buckles—George, you smile—you smile,
Like morning o'er the great Atlantic wave!
Still, somewhat grave.
Alive, you never smiled, 'tis said:
You can afford one now you're dead.

Washington.
I had no time for smiles.

Guelph.
That's very true!
Very true—very true—it is exceedingly true!
The British gave you something else to do.
Yes—and you did it. Ah, you're not much changed:
Neither am I, though somewhat disarranged.
But I should look as trim and plain,
New risen from my tomb—
Too sturdily self-will'd for disdain,—
As though, from Windsor come,
Direct to London town.—
Though now a Shade—who once wore England's crown.
I do rejoice to see your “stars,”
Which then so grieved me in our wars!

Washington.
King-Shade! 'tis better men should forget some things,
And leave the mind a clear field for new deeds;
The more so when the memory chafes or bleeds,
Which may confuse or clog our onward wings.

Guelph.
I think so, now:—there is no doubt
Death makes us wiser, and we see
Behind, around, and onward through the rout
Of people, soldiers, politicians,
And fools with “missions,”
And state perplexities,—
Besides one's own—one's own—think, think of that—
A bull-head will that burst through this cock'd hat!

Washington.
And you may bear in mind, regretfully,
Though now we have easy hearts—contented power—
Remonstrances most filial met a shower
Of stone-cold words, or bullets for reply.

Guelph.
Yes—yes—you had some hard words, George,
And after that, a bayonet-charge.
Some bullets too—brown-bess ones;—so had we!
You very nearly drove us into the sea—
Yes—into the Atlantic sea!
At any rate, quite close upon the shore:
And soldiers with no drums and fifes of glee,
Soon had to sail home—troubling you no more.

Washington.
But you saw none the clearer, old King George,
Nor were your ministers the best of men:
You were convinced against your will, for then—
And some while after—you would fain re-forge
The anchor whose hot flukes we cast off from our shores.

Guelph.
Shade of the Brave!—re-open not old sores!
Taxes, you know, seem natural to Kings.
We gave your freedom—but we wanted money—
(Like my son “Wales,”
Who was much troubled by a man named “Boney,!”)
My memory fails,—
And in my brain an unknown conflict sings!
Oh, I am stubborn—proud as hoary;
But evermore I thought of England's glory,
Centred within my crown!—
That you will own,
Man of few words—
(More guns and swords)
Lay then upon my tomb forgiving flowers!

Washington.
My country does so!—and your poets sing
Of English-speaking people's future powers.

Guelph.
George Washington! shake hands with your old King,
Who did you so much wrong—you, his best son!
The bull-head crown that you cast-off,
Hath long since ceas'd to fret for more dominions
Than Phœbus shines upon;
And Conquest's pinions
Are folded like an iron ring,
Ne'er to unclasp: our old flag's staff
No more to plant except on friendly shores.
But yours?—a different Destiny,
(Needing no keen prophetic eye)
Reveals—as far as Southern Ocean roars.