Went to Mount Vernon; and I would n't have lost That trip, for fifteen hundred times its cost! Those farm-lands sleeping in the autumn sun; The house HE slept in when his work was done;
The trees he planted with his own brave hand, That set out Freedom's trees all o'er the land: The humble tomb he lies in, which — like me — Pilgrims from all the world have come to see:
These look up in one's eyes and sadly smile, And preach a funeral sermon all the while! Even the river-boats upon their way Toll bells, as if he'd died that very day!
And through it all this precept may be traced: The noblest men are simplest in their taste. I've read how grand, Napoleon's tomb is made, And all the surface-honors to him paid;
But I do n't think the people that come there Bring any heartfelt sympathy to spare; While every true-brained patriot, night and morn, Thanks God for letting Washington be born!
While I was standing, hat off, at the tomb, A youth approached, three-quarters made of bloom; And with his hat perched on his close-sheared head, And smoking a small white cigar, he said:
“Sirrh, would you kindly just enlighten me As to where Gawge cut down the cherry-tree?” Said I, “Young man, just please at once disgorge The fool-idea of calling that man‘ George;’
His body, mind, and soul were firmly set Higher, no doubt, than you will ever get. He is n't the man, though lying dead,‘ tis true, When friends are near, to be half-named by you.
Take off your hat, and bow; if you rebel, I'll get a cherry switch and trounce you well.” He looked at me a moment in surprise, And mutiny stood foremost in his eyes;
But I was quite indignant, and could feel The blood of Bunker Hill all through me steal. I said, “One minute more will be allowed;” The fine young man took off his hat, and bowed.
Irreverence is the fashion, nowadays, And shows itself in good and evil ways; Its mission is legitimate and clear In cases where there's nothing to revere;
But they who use it must be judgment-fixed, And not get reverend and unreverend mixed. Through these broad streets do I fly — Furlongs and miles I defy,
Till the “magnificent distance” Vanishes out of existence. Let me with pencil prolong Strains of the Bicycler's Song:
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