The statue was unveiled

Earth's hodden grey will change to livelier hues

Enriched with pearl drops of the limpid dews;

Plenty will stand with her large tranquil eyes

To see her treasures o'er the landscape rise.

Thus may the lover of his country hope

To see again the Nation's spring-tide ope,

And freedom's harvest turn to ripened gold,

So that our world may give unto the old

Of its great opulence, as Joseph gave

Bread to his brothers when they came to crave.

But from his name I've paused too long you think?

Yet he who stands beside Niagra's brink

Breaketh not forth at once of its grand strife;

‘ Tis thus I stand subdued by his great life —

And with his name a host of others rise,

Climbing like planets, Fame's eternal skies:

Great names, my Brothers! with such deeds allied

That all Virginians glow with filial pride —

That here the multitude shall daily pace

Around this statue's hero-circled base,

Thinking on those who, though long sunk in sleep,

Still round our camp the guard of sentries keep —

Who when a foe encroaches on our line,

Prompt the stern challenge for the countersign —

Who with proud memories feed our bright watch-fire

Which ne'er has faded, never will expire;

Grand benedictions, they in bronze will stand

To guard and consecrate our native land!

Great names are theirs! But his, like battle song,

In quicker current sends our blood along;

For at its music hearts throb quick and large,

Like those of horsemen thundering in the charge.

God's own Knight-Errant! There his figure stands!

Our souls are full — our bonnets in our hands!

When the fierce torrent — lava-like — of bronze

To mould this statue burst it furnace bonds,

When it out-thundered in its liquid flow,

With splendid flame and scintillating glow,

‘ Twas in its wild tumultuous throb and storm

Type of the age which moulded into form

The god-like character of him sublime,

Whose name is reared a statue for all time

In the great minster of the whole world's heart.

I've called his name a statue. Stern and vast

It rests enthroned upon the mighty past:

Fit plinth for him whose image in the mind

Looms up as that of one by God designed!

Fit plinth in sooth! the mighty past for him

Whose simple name is Glory's synonyme!

E'en Fancy's self, in her enchanted sleep,

Can dream no future which may cease to keep

His name in guard, like sentinel and cry

From Time's great bastions: “It shall never die.”

His simple name a statue? Yes, and grand

‘ Tis reared in this and every other land.

Around its base a group more noble stands

Than e'er was carved by human sculptor's hands,

E'en though each form, like that of old should flush

With vivid beauty's animating blush —

Though dusky bronze, or pallid stone should thrill

With sudden life at some Pygmalion's will —

For these great figures, with his own enshrined,

Are seen, my Countrymen, by men, though blind.

There Valor fronts us with her storied shield,

Brave in devices won on many a field;

A splendid wreath snatched from the carnage grim

Is twined around that buckler's burnished rim,

And as we gaze, the brazen trumpets blare

With shrill vibration shakes the frightened air —

The roll of musketry — the clash of steel —

The clang of hoofs as charging squadrons wheel —

The hoarse command — the imprecative cry —

Swell loud and long, while Fancy's eager eye

Sees the stern van move on with crimson strides

Where Freedom's warrior on his war-horse rides,

Sees the great cannon flash out red and fast

Through battle mists which canopy the past.

And solemn-fronted Truth with earnest eyes,

Stands there serenely beautiful and wise;

Her stately form in undisturbed repose,

Rests by her well, where limpid crystal flows

While on her face, which can severely frown,

A smile is breaking as she gazes down;

For clearly marked upon that tranquil wave

Slumbers his image in a picture brave,

And leaning on the fountain's coping stone,

She scarce can tell his shadow from her own.

And Wisdom, with her meditative gaze,

Beside its base her mighty chart displays;

There with her solemn and impressive hand

Writes as she stoops — as Christ wrote on the sand —

But what she traces all may read —‘ tis this:

An invocation by our dreams of bliss —

By hopes to do and by our great deeds done,

The war of sections thro’ all time to shun —

She writes the words which almost seem divine,

“Our deadliest foe's a geographic line!”

And Justice, with her face severely grand,

Stands‘ mid the group, her balances in hand:

Faultless in judging trivial deeds, or great,

Unmoved by love and unimpressed by hate.

Beside her gleams undimmed by spot, or rust,

A mighty blade to strike when strike she must;

And this bright falchion like that which defends

The guarded gate where earth in Eden ends,

With flame terrific and with ponderous sway

Frightens each Brennus from her scales away.

And there we see pale, pleading Mercy bow,

A troubled shadow on her saintly brow;

Her fringed lashes tremulous with tears,

Which glitter still through all the change of years:

And as we see those tear drops slowly rise,

Giving new softness to her tender eyes,

Away the mists which o'er the dark past drift

Are rent and scattered, while the sudden rift

Shows, like some distant headland vast and dim

Seen through the tempest, the great soul of him

Who guarding against the native traitor, could

Turn from her pleadings for his country's good.

And Honor last completes the stately group,

With eye like eagle's in descending swoop,

Fronted like goddess beautiful and proud

When sailing on the “lazy-pacing cloud ":

Prouder her port than that of all the rest,

With radiant forehead and translucent breast,

She needs no gesture of supreme command

For us to know her foremost of the band:

They were his counsellors, she as the mind

By which their promptings were in deeds combined —

In deeds which Fame, like fasces bears before

The noblest consul that earth ever bore.

Why are we here? It were a bitter shame

To pay this homage to a hero's name,

And yet forget the principles which gave

His true defiance to oblivion's wave!

Aye! Sirs, remember when the day is spent,

In Freedom's camp our soldier pitched his tent!

Maintain your own — respect your brother's right —

Thus will you praise Jehovah's belted Knight.

Are we Pompeians gathered here to-day,

Gazing upon our last superb display?

Crowning the hours with many a festal wreath,

While red Vesuvius bubbles underneath?

Oh! no, my Countrymen! This cloud must be

The smoke of incense floating o'er the free!

No lava-flood can e'er o'erwhelm this land,

Held as‘ tis holden, in God's mighty hand.

And when the garlands of to-day are pale,

Shall clang of armorers riveting our mail

Rise in harsh dissonance where now the song

In surging music sweeps the land along?

No, Brothers, no! The Providence on high

Stretches above us like the arching sky;

As o'er the world that broad empyrean field,

So o'er the nation God's protecting shield!

His the great will which sways the tide of earth —

His the great will which giveth empires birth —

And this grand truth through every age and clime

Is written out in characters sublime;

But most we see the traces of His hand

In the great Epic of our native land.

This new world had its Adam and he fled —

God's was the voice and God's the mighty tread

Which scared the red man from his Eden bowers

God's the decree which made the garden ours!

And Eden‘ twas and such it still remains:

Oh, Brothers! shall we prove a race of Cains?

Shall impious hands be armed with deadly things,

Because we bring up different offerings

Unto our altars? To the Nation's shrine

I take my gift; my brother, take thou thine!

Again I ask: While this proud bronze remains,

Shall this great people prove a race of Cains?

Here make your answer at this statue's base,

Beneath this warrior's calm, majestic face;

And here remember that your best applause

To him is shown in standing by the Laws!

But if our rights shall ever be denied,

I call upon you, by your race's pride,

To seek some “West Augusta” and unfurl

Our banner where the mountain vapors curl:

Lowland and valley then will swell the cry,

He left us free: thus will we live, or die!

One other word, Virginia, hear thy son,

Whose filial service now is nearly done —

Hear me old State! Thou art supremely blest:

A hero's ashes slumber in thy breast!

Oh, Mother! if the ashes of a king

Could nerve to deeds with which Fame's trumpets ring,

What glove of challenger shall make thee start,

When thy great son lies sleeping on thy heart!