Classic Poem

Brothers, remember what the Master said,
And all great souls had dimly felt before—
‘In sober truth, and ever more and more,
The men who live are govern'd by the dead.’
The rules by which our daily lives are led,
Our faith, our arts, our language and our lore—
We did not make them, but inherited,
Augmenting little the transmitted store.
For us, the children of a younger day,
The noble deeds of olden time were done;
For us were Freedom's ancient battles won,
And saintly sufferers trod the toilsome way:
Be thankful, then, at thought of Marathon,
And 'midst Iona's ruins pause and pray.