 | [Crawford's statue of Washington, in] The lily of the valley |  |
47
CRAWFORD'S STATUE OF WASHINGTON.
[_]
At the erection of this noble Statue in Richmond, February 22d, 1858, the wife of Crawford was present, but the great artist was with the dead.
They raised his statue to its throne,
'Neath fair Virginia's sky,
The noblest hero of the earth,
Whose memory cannot die,
And there, upon his day of birth,
In his loved native clime,
He towered, as in his manhood's morn,
Majestic and sublime.
'Neath fair Virginia's sky,
The noblest hero of the earth,
Whose memory cannot die,
And there, upon his day of birth,
In his loved native clime,
He towered, as in his manhood's morn,
Majestic and sublime.
But he, who with Promethean power
Could mould the shapeless clay,
And wake the chiseled bronze to life,
Where was his life that day?
He stood not 'mid the gallant throng,
To answer to his name,
Nor on his temples bind the wreath
That genius wins from fame.
Could mould the shapeless clay,
And wake the chiseled bronze to life,
Where was his life that day?
He stood not 'mid the gallant throng,
To answer to his name,
Nor on his temples bind the wreath
That genius wins from fame.
48
Yet one we saw with pallid cheek,
And ever-dropping tear,—
Dwelt she not in his heart of hearts?
Why comes she mourning here?
She led her children by the hand,
Their father's work to see,
And hear the guerdon of his praise
From high-toned chivalry.
And ever-dropping tear,—
Dwelt she not in his heart of hearts?
Why comes she mourning here?
She led her children by the hand,
Their father's work to see,
And hear the guerdon of his praise
From high-toned chivalry.
And silently that prayer arose,
Which none but mothers know,
That all his virtues in their souls
Might root, and heavenward grow;
Though o'er her spirit darkly hung,
Like curtaining pall of dread,
The shadow of a foreign tomb,
The image of the dead.
Which none but mothers know,
That all his virtues in their souls
Might root, and heavenward grow;
Though o'er her spirit darkly hung,
Like curtaining pall of dread,
The shadow of a foreign tomb,
The image of the dead.
True wife!—True mother!—Noblest hearts
With tenderest pity stir,
And soften even the exulting shout,
In sympathy for her,—
While at the glorious Chieftain's feet,
Twined with the laurels, lay
A leaflet of that holy love,
Which cannot fade away.
With tenderest pity stir,
And soften even the exulting shout,
In sympathy for her,—
While at the glorious Chieftain's feet,
Twined with the laurels, lay
A leaflet of that holy love,
Which cannot fade away.
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