To Those Who Reproved the Author for Too Sanguine Patriotism
The riches of a nation are her dead
Whom she hath borne to be her memory
AgainsTher passing, when that time shall be,
And in the Caesars' tomb she makes her bed;
And oft of such decay in books I've read —
Carthage or Venice, who had wealth as we;
Yet, all too wise for patriots, blame not me!
I know a nation's gold is not man's bread.
But rather from itself the heart infers
That ached when Lincoln died! those boyish tears
Still keep my breast untraitored by its fears;
Farragut, Phillips, Grant — I saw them shine,
Names worthy to have filled old Virgil's line;
If I prove false, it is the future errs.
Whom she hath borne to be her memory
AgainsTher passing, when that time shall be,
And in the Caesars' tomb she makes her bed;
And oft of such decay in books I've read —
Carthage or Venice, who had wealth as we;
Yet, all too wise for patriots, blame not me!
I know a nation's gold is not man's bread.
But rather from itself the heart infers
That ached when Lincoln died! those boyish tears
Still keep my breast untraitored by its fears;
Farragut, Phillips, Grant — I saw them shine,
Names worthy to have filled old Virgil's line;
If I prove false, it is the future errs.
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