20
THE SERMON OF SPRING.
As with a sound of sweet music, I pass from your hearing.Washington! thou art set as a symbol of greatness,Of courage that boasts not, of honor that knows not temptation.Thee all men praise—not a town in thy multiplied countryThat hath not thy name and thy bust for its empty Valhalla.How is it with thee, calm looking down from the deathcloud?Is not thy soul astound with the praise and the practice?Dost thou not point to the niches, the wreaths, and the statues,Asking: "What is it ye honor, who know not my maxims?Mocking my spirit, when patriots catch its far echoes.Wherefore these splendors?—the skill of the draftsman and sculptor—Marbles, whose whiteness stands not for your whiteness of virtue,Filth of the market defiling the innermost temple—Wherefore these columns?—this dome that shall pierce the high heaven?Were not the narrow walls wide enough for your mercies?
