Gallipolis journal. [volume] (Gallipolis, Ohio) 1837-1919, 1862-09-18
POETS CORNER
rANp is THIS ALL7D
WRITTEN AT TIE GRAVE OF WASHINGTON,
BY OLIVER 1. TAYLOR

WRITTEN AT TIE GRAVE OF WASHINGTON,
BY OLIVER I. TAYLOR.
TThe author encountered. in trip along the
Potomac, e European gentleman Of rank and
education, who, with the magnIfcence OF
Westminster Abbey doubtless before his
mind, on behoIding the simple, unadorned as
pect of Mount Vernon, remarked with sur
prise, not unmixed with sarcasm, "snd is this
al your country does for WashIngtonF1
And is this alp What wouIdst thou haveF-
Some vast
And eoIonnaded pile, whose mounting front
Should lock with daring gaze in Heavens
calm face;
And adamantine walls, and pendant arms
With royal banners deck'd, to guard the clay,
The cofin'd clay of greatness7 Not such,
not such
For him. These, the cold and solemn mock
cries
Which cunning Tyranny invents to awe
hepulseless souls of his tame worshippers,
Bsft not him, whose life majestic was,
And grand. yet free from pomp and empty
boast
As these high, everlasting hills; and pure
As yon clear heaven which smiles upon his
What Tould'st thou have7 Is not this spot
of earth
Most beautifuI7 Toll not that doleful bells
like it not. It's tones might well beit
The wsil Of woe, stern images of shroud,
And pail, and agonizing tears; but this,
o, this--why, It's scene of Joy! The blue
Rejoicing stream, kissing each stalwart rock,
As If to win the sternness from IFS face,
Goes singing on its way past happy homes
Blest with the kindliest fruits Of earth. And
here
The hills have found pathway TO the sun,
Catching the earliest smile Of coming morn,
And the last glory Of departing day.
The flowers breathe their holiest incense
round,
And all the air is musical with birds
That fit from spray to spray.
And here. is this
SequestereI nook, where trees Of deathless
verdure
Spring from out the mould-taking their root
From consecrated dust-here slumbers all
All of greatness that can diei Tread lightly,
For methinks his sainted spirit broods in all
The perfum' d air, and hallows every scene
OF this most lovely spot.
And is this alp
Rack TO thy lordly isle, and say to them
Who wear their greatness in iewel'd star,
IA
That thou hast seen the grave of him whose
fame
Is welded to eternity;-beneath
Whose eye their naughty lion quail'd; before
Whose brow earth's proudest monarehs
shrank, abash'd
At their own littleness; and whose mighty
arm
It was that broke, as straws, the CALLING yokes,
And dash'd to earth the clanking chains they
form'd
For men of free-born souls.
And is this all?
And say, beside that grave thou saw'st one,
Nurtur'd in the free and fertile West, and
taught
Ry his own lofty hills and chainless floods
To loathe the very name of Tyrant, how'd
Him there, and felt such aspirations high,
Such pride unutterable, and such holy awe
As no Delphian vale, no Pilgrim shrine
OF blessed Mecca, and no mouldering cross
Or tower, clad in verdure rich with blood
OF martyred saint or warrior, ere could stir
Within his youthful veins. And his but one
0ftwice ten million hearts that throb like his;
That turn them to this grave, a nations
shrine,
And gather here such nerve for noble deeds,
That should some rash, intruding foe ere dare
To wrest from them the sacred birth right won
BY him who slumbers here, or ever seek,
With sacrilegious hand, to mar the deep
Repose Of this most consecrated spot, then,
As multitudinous the oceans waves,
Their swords would leap from out their
sheaths, and strike
In their avenging arms for Freedom, Home
And God, deeming their lives a paltry price
For the bare privilege to fight for such
a heritagei
And say, the grave that thus
Could fire the heart of youth; could win the
love
OF matron and Of maid, bore not a trace
OF blazon'd eulogy; no funeral urn,
No sculptur'd shaft or Parian marble,
And no bristling arms o'er canopied with
gold
But, simple, grand, serene as his own life.
1t lies within the dim old woods he lov'd
So well; the broad blue heaven that smiles
above,
His epitaph the stream that murmurs by,
His everlasting dirge,
Back with thy thoughts
of lordly birth; bring not thy empty trap
pings
Here. He needs them not
at is the custom of vessels to tell their bells