On the Author's Seventy-sixth Birthday

Long watching wars and feuds, at last I am old.
The friends of my far youth are in the grave;
Buried less deeply than the'unsung but brave
Whose hearts the embrace of the sea did leave full cold.
And now, though small the lure of fame or gold,
There is one boon that I indeed must crave.
Some gift the Gods to luckier mortals gave?
Ah, no: but the felicity to behold
This Nation, that survives the storms of Fate,
Still young in soul; still rich by secret dower
And cryptic birthright; casting rage and hate
From her remembrance; and throughout each hour
Strengthening the Forts of Peace, that they may tower
Impregnably mighty, and invincibly great.
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