He lies in pomp--not of display-- No useless trappings grace his bier, Nor idle words--they may not say What treasures cluster here. The pomp of nature, wild and free, Adorns our hero's lowly bed, And gently bends above his head The weeping laurel tree. In glory's day he shunned display, And ye may not bedeck him now, But Nature may, in her own way, Hang garlands round his brow. He lies in pomp--not sculptured stone, Nor chiseled marble--vain pretence-- The glory of his deeds alone Is his magnificence. His country's love the meed he won, He bore it with him down to death, Unsullied e'en by slander's breath-- His country's sire and son. Her hopes and fears, her smiles and tears, Were each his own.--He gave his land His earliest cares, his choicest years, And led her conquering band. He lies in pomp--not pomp of war-- He fought, but fought not for renown; He triumphed, yet the victor's star Adorned no regal crown. His honor was his country's weal; From off her neck the yoke he tore-- It was enough, he asked no more; His generous heart could feel No low desire for king's attire;-- With brother, friend, and country blest, He could aspire to honors higher Than kingly crown or crest. He lies in pomp--his burial place Than sculptured stone is richer far; For in the heart's deep love we trace His name, a golden star. Wherever patriotism breathes, His memory is devoutly shrined In every pure and gifted mind: And history, with wreaths Of deathless fame, entwines that name, Which evermore, beneath all skies, Like vestal flame, shall live the same, For virtue never dies. There let him rest--'t is a sweet spot; Simplicity becomes the great--But Vernon's son is not forgot, Though sleeping not in state. There, wrapt in his own dignity, His presence makes it hallowed ground, And Nature throws her charms around, And o'er him smiles the sky. There let him rest--the noblest, best; The labors of his life all done-- There let him rest, the spot is blessed-- The grave of WASHINGTON. ADELAIDE. LIFE AMONG FARMERS.