Gazette Of The United States And Daily Evening Advertiser

For the Gazette of the United States.

President's Birth-Day.
February 22d, 1795.

TH' Almighty Hand, which guides the rolling spheres,
Points out their paths, rules their unvarying years,
Now brings this planetary Earth, once more,
To hail the Day th' immortal Hero bore:
The Day, Great Washington, which gave thee birth,
To vindicate the Rights of Man on earth;
To rear blest Liberty, her flag unfurl,
And vengeance merited, on tyrants hurl!
Thy sons, Columbia, join in choral song,
The echoing hills the grateful notes prolong;
Shrill clarions sound, and loud the cannons roar,
To celebrate the Day thy Hero bore!

But, while their festive joys assail the skies,
Behold portentous prodigies, arise.
At once, the hurtling clouds condense in air,
Lo, muttering thunders roll, and lightnings glare;
From groves and hills, there moves a hollow sound,
Commencing earthquakes, rock the conscious ground!
While ev'ry heart is chill'd with lightning fear,
Columbia's voice is heard, distinct and clear:
O why, my fav'rite sons,' she sighing said,
Why on this Day, are your rejoicings made?
With whirlwind speed the year is rolling o'er,
Where Death shall claim my Hero for his own;
Each passing year subtracts the brief account,
And time is hourly stealing from th' amount;
Long time his virtues, and his patriot name,
Have nurs'd, fair Liberty, thy sacred flame;
Suppress'd curst Faction, loos'd from native hell,
Her vot'ries crush'd, as, with a magic spell;
E'en now Great Washington almost alone,
Supports my cause, by efforts all his own.—
But, when entomb'd in silence he shall sleep,
I fear, lost Liberty, in vain you'll weep;
Who then with equal firmness, and applause
Shall Faction check, and aid my sinking cause?
Alas, my Sons, give o'er your festive mirth,
And rather deprecate his death, than hail his birth!'

Columbia ceas'd; when lo, an angel form,
Is seen, sublimely rising o'er the storm;
He wav'd his hand, the tempest ceas'd to roll,
Again he wav'd his hand;—to either Pole,
The clouds swift vanish'd,—and refulgent day
Reviving nature cheer'd, with heav'nly ray.
He touch'd Columbia, with his potent hand,
Instant, on Apalachian heights they stand.
The Seraph spoke, now turn thy wond'ring eyes,
Where Andes' summits prop the bending skies;
Beyond them see luxuriant plains descend,
To Southern Ocean wood-crown'd hills extend.
Where Niagara pours, from awful height,
His thund'ring wave, fix thy astonish'd sight;
And further on, where icy oceans roll,
'Round the cold axle of the Arctic pole.
From Eastern shores, wash'd by th' Atlantic wave,
To Western bounds, which Seas Pacific lave.
This wide domain, by God's supreme decree,
Rose from old Ocean's bed, a Gift for thee,
The same decree, irrevocably giv'n,
Pronounc'd this land, the fav'rite land of Heav'n.
The Guardian Angel of thy bright abode,
Commission'd from the Mercy Seat of God

I come to calm thy grief, dry up thy tears,
Excite thy joys, and dissipate thy fears.
What tho' mad Europe's sons, in conflict dire,
With Hell uniting, 'whelm the world in fire;
What tho' fell Discord, in thy air domain,
Erect its crest, and stalk the peaceful plain;
What tho' curst Slander strive, with impious tongue,
To wound thy Washington, his fame to wrong;
And factious license, deck't in harlot-wiles,
For Liberty's chaste form, with Heav'nly smiles,
Is oft mistook, by ignorance and vice
And blackest falsehood stamp'd, with Truth's device?"

Yet rest assured, I guard thy Hero's life,
Support his mind, 'midst all th'ungrateful strife;
Nor shall he quit the helm (so Heav'n ordains)
Till Government secure, with Order reigns.
I guard the Freedom of thy fav'rite clime,
Unceasing guard it, to the end of time;
In vain shall Tyranny its hackles form;
In vain shall Anarchy, in madd'ning storm,
Attempt to crush s consecrated shrine,
Or mar its Temple, rear'd by pow'r divine!'

At distant period shall thy Hero rise,
Convoy'd by Angels, to th'approving skies;
As erst Elijah's holy mantle fraught,
With God-like virtues, by Elisha caught,
So, double portions of his Spirit, giv'n
To his successors, (rich bequest of Heav'n)
Shall guide to freedom, happiness and peace,
Thy countless sons, " 'till Time's own empire cease."

Columbia bow'd with rev'rence and delight;
The Cherub vanish'd from her raptur'd sight—
Her cheerful voice now fills the floating air,
Rejoice my sons, your choral songs prepare,
In each revolving year, with festive mirth,
To celebrate the day, which gave my Hero birth!