LA FAYETTE.
 
        The wail of France comes o'er the sea, --
            She mourns for thee, departed chief;
        And we, the children of the Free,
            Re-echo back the notes of grief.
 
        Thy course was like the morning sun,
            That lights two worlds, the east and west;
        Thy brilliant, glorious race is run,
            Thou takest thine eternal rest.
 
        Thy fame shall pass from age to age,
            From clime to clime, from sire to son;
        And History, on her glowing page,
            Shall write thy name with Washington.