AN ODE, On the PRESIDENT'S BIRTH-DAY

Enthron'd in weeds of state, The Goddess, Fredom, sate Among her peers— What valliant son, she cry'd, Dare on war's tempest ride, And check great Albion's pride Below the spheres?

No one, great Jove maintain'd, In heav'nly armies train'd, Need wake alarms— This Day an Hero's born, The world's exalted Son. His name is WASHINGTON, Expert in arms.

The Goddess saw below, On Vernon's sky-wrapt brow, His noble form— On light'nings fierce she sped, And hover'd round his head. Her beauteous crescent spread Before the storm.

Then trembling at the view, His glit'ring sword he drew, With placid mein— 'Tis right! she said—stand forth, The god like son of earth, I come to bless thy birth In climes serene.

With joy extatic crown'd, He heard the silver sound, Awake! be free! Then grasp'd his sword again, Saw armies cross the main, Usurp his native plain Of Liberty.