Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/264

Rh For the might that clothed The "Pater Patriæ," for the glorious deeds That make Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca shrine For all the earth, what thanks to thee are due, Who, 'mid his elements of being, wrought, We know not—Heaven can tell. Rise, sculptured pile! And show a race unborn, who rests below, And say to mothers what a holy charge Is theirs—with what a kingly power their love Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind. Warn them to wake at early dawn—and sow Good seed, before the world hath sown her tares; Nor in their toil decline—that angel-bands May put the sickle in and reap for God, And gather to his garner. Ye, who stand, With thrilling breast, to view her trophied praise, Who nobly reared Virginia's godlike chief— Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch, Whose first at waking, is your cradled son, What though no high ambition prompts to rear A second Washington; or leave your name Wrought out in marble with a nation's tears Of deathless gratitude—yet may you raise A monument above the stars—a soul Led by your teachings, and your prayers to God.