On the birth-day of Time, the young monarch of light
With his beams waked from slumber the virgin creation;--
So, dispelling the gloom of Cimmerian night,
The lustre of Washington burst on our nation.
And this is the morn
The Hero was born,
Whose virtues shall History's pages adorn;
And his spirit awakes from the sleep of the grave,
To meet with his friends;--for his friends are the brave.
The same spirit descends, borne on pinions of light,
That guided to fame our immortal commander;
O'er the ashes of Moscow she urges her flight,
And smiles while she hovers around Alexander.
She points to his rest
In the bowers of the blest,
Where the sunshine of peace warms the patriot's breast;
Where Washington, waked from the sleep of the grave,
Waits to welcome his friend;--for his friend is the brave.
The Serpent of France, nursed on carnage and spoil,
In whose poisonous train war and pestilence follow,
In agony writhes his voluminous coil,
Like the Python, assailed by the shafts of Apollo.
And, while patriot zeal
Gives the monster to feel
The lance of Koutousoff and Wellington's steel,
The spirit of Washington wakes from his grave,
To rejoice with his friends;--for his friends are the brave.
Though Columbia, ingulfed in a vortex of blood,
Hurls her gauntlet, unarmed, at the proud Queen of Ocean;--
Let thy spirit, great Hero, descend on the flood,
And rescue thy child from the mighty commotion.--
And, with boundless acclaim,
We'll ascribe to thy name
All that 's sacred in honor, or lasting in fame;
Till the fields of our fathers be Liberty's grave,
And virtue expire in the breast of the brave.
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