Volume 1 — TRUMBULL GALLERY.

’Tis well to gaze upon thee, glorious chief: There is instruction with thee. There’s no brief Or fleeting lesson traced on thy calm brow. A nation’s love is thine. Her prayer is now Uprising for thy weal. A nation’s life Is trusted to thy care; and calls thee to the strife. The mother leaneth on her well tried son And finds thee never wanting, Washington. The angry waters leap and roar below. Danger is on the air—sounds of the mighty foe— Wildness is all around thee. The scathed oak, Rent rock—earth ploughed by the death wing’d stroke, Wind-shriek, storm-gloom, death-chill. Thou art alone unmoved. Thine eye is still Proudly undaunted—far darting, fearless, grand, Flashing with patriot fire, shielding our father-land. Thine is no kingly dignity. Thy brow Wears not so poor a wreath.—The sacred glow And majesty of freedom beam around thee there— Her laurel crown is thine—no other would’st thou wear. She knows thee, her lov’d worshiper. To guard her shrine No truer arm the sword has bared, high chief, than thine. ’Tis well to think of thee—thy immortality how won, Tried warrior, statesman, father, Washington. Ione.