Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON, by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Long hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole
Last Line: Led by your teachings, and your prayers to god.
Subject(s): Mothers; Presidents, United States; Washington, George (1732-1799)


On the laying of the Corner-stone of her Monument at Fredericksburg,
Virginia.

LONG hast thou slept unnoted. Nature stole
In her soft ministry around thy bed,
Spreading her vernal tissue, violet-gemmed,
And pearled with dews.
She bade bright Summer bring
Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds,
And Autumn cast his reaper's coronet
Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak
Sternly of man's neglect.
But now we come
To do thee homage -- mother of our chief!
Fit homage -- such as honoreth him who pays.
Methinks we see thee -- as in olden time --
Simple in garb -- majestic and serene,
Unmoved by pomp or circumstance -- in truth
Inflexible, and with a Spartan zeal
Repressing vice and making folly grave.
Thou didst not deem it woman's part to waste
Life in inglorious sloth -- to sport awhile
Amid the flowers, or on the summer wave,
Then fleet, like the ephemeron, away,
Building no temple in her children's hearts,
Save to the vanity and pride of life
Which she had worshipped.
For the might that clothed
The "Pater Patriae," for the glorious deeds
That make Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca shrine
To 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.






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