Classic Poem

Idols of wood and stone, conquerors and kings—
Creatures of gilded dust with feet of clay—
See how the nations worship these vain things
A breath has made, a breath might sweep away!

Puppets, lost in the lustre of a crown,
Imperial but by irony of birth,
Unworthy heritors of old renown,
Yet more than gods to half the heedless earth;

Soldiers, who leave posterity a name,
A statue in the shrine of fear and hate.—
To nobler minds the synonym of shame,
An effigy to scorn and execrate;

Leaders of State, coiners of ringing phrase,
Prating of common weal and patriotism,
Insatiate pensioners of public praise,
Froth on the fickle tide of party schism;

To these the world bows down, the incense fumes;
Fame in her false and florid blazonry,
Inscribes the legends of their deeds and dooms,
And credulous history repeats the lie.

But there are lofty spirits in disguise,
Heroes in common garb, whose meek brows bear
The thorny crown of perfect sacrifice,
Whose simple souls are kingly unaware;

Lives to one sacred mission consecrate
Of duty death alone can swerve them from,
Or love that glorifies their lowly state
Through fiery pangs of lifelong martyrdom.

They tread with us the dusty paths of time,
Or lie in uncommemorative sod,
Unrecognized, unhonored, yet sublime,
Their greatness witnessed only by their God.