The Anniversaries Poems in Commemoration of Great Men and Great Events. By Thomas H. Gill |
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February 22.
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February 22.
(ON THIS DAY, 1732, GEORGE WASHINGTON WAS BORN.)
Full many a tear hath dimmed thy glorious eye,
O Freedom smitten sore: full many a crime
Hath laid its stain upon thy majesty:
Yes, fierce and foolish lovers through all time
Have vexed the pureness of thy soul sublime:
Yet hast thou smilëd on one stainless son;—
He never brought thee shame, thy calm-souled Washington!
O Freedom smitten sore: full many a crime
Hath laid its stain upon thy majesty:
Yes, fierce and foolish lovers through all time
Have vexed the pureness of thy soul sublime:
Yet hast thou smilëd on one stainless son;—
He never brought thee shame, thy calm-souled Washington!
Ah! lovers that desired thee with desire,
The strong o'ermastering passion have unlearned;
Yes, hearts that brought thee all their young, bright fire,
Against thy majesty have fiercely burned,
The fulness of thy cleaving curse have earned.
Yet in one heart a steadfast flame burned on;
He loved thee to the last, thine own true Washington.
The strong o'ermastering passion have unlearned;
Yes, hearts that brought thee all their young, bright fire,
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The fulness of thy cleaving curse have earned.
Yet in one heart a steadfast flame burned on;
He loved thee to the last, thine own true Washington.
Yes, mighty hands that hallowëd their might
To thy dear service, have thy glory shorn;
Full many a sword that leaped forth strong and bright
To smite thy foemen, hath thy bosom torn;
Yes, captains of thy host thy spoils have worn.
Yet in one hand a guardian sword still gleamed;
Thy Washington ne'er wronged the land he once redeemed.
To thy dear service, have thy glory shorn;
Full many a sword that leaped forth strong and bright
To smite thy foemen, hath thy bosom torn;
Yes, captains of thy host thy spoils have worn.
Yet in one hand a guardian sword still gleamed;
Thy Washington ne'er wronged the land he once redeemed.
O consecrated sword, no stain that took,
That had not misbecome an angel's hand!
O faithful sword, that ne'er its work forsook!
O lowly sword, that waited each command,
That served each need of the dear Father Land!
A servant true, to glory forth it leapt;
A servant more sublime, a sleep more glorious slept.
That had not misbecome an angel's hand!
O faithful sword, that ne'er its work forsook!
O lowly sword, that waited each command,
That served each need of the dear Father Land!
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A servant more sublime, a sleep more glorious slept.
O Western people! back the glory win
Of that bright sword, that soul without a stain!
Reclaim the whiteness of the robes wherein
Thy nursing-father swathëd thee! disdain
The grave-clothes which thy mighty limbs restrain,
His holy lore of freedom ne'er unlearn;
In his great ways still walk—with his pure fire still burn!
Of that bright sword, that soul without a stain!
Reclaim the whiteness of the robes wherein
Thy nursing-father swathëd thee! disdain
The grave-clothes which thy mighty limbs restrain,
His holy lore of freedom ne'er unlearn;
In his great ways still walk—with his pure fire still burn!
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