THE riches of a nation are her dead Whom she hath borne to be her memory Against her passing, when that time shall be, And in the Cæsar's 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHEN DE CO'N PONE'S HOT by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR AS THE GREEK'S SIGNAL FLAME by WALT WHITMAN ABBEY ASAROE by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM LINES WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD ON A VIOLA D'AMORE by MATHILDE BLIND A BRIDGE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN ON A TWIN AT TWO YEARS OLD DEAD OF A CONSUMPTION by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |