< Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu
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THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON. 187
Whose first at waking, is your cradled son, What though no high ambition prompts to rear A second Washington, or leave your name Wrought out in marble with a nation's tears Of deathless gratitude yet may you raise A monument above the stars a soul Led by your teachings and your prayers to God.
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