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...SHERMAN'S IN SAVANNAH [DECEMBER 22, 1864] by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES THE TOKEN by FRANK TEMPLETON PRINCE THE WHITE BIRDS by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS MILLS OF DESTINY by EVA K. ANGLESBURG VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF P. BURGESS; A CHILD OF SUPERIOR ENDOWMENTS by BERNARD BARTON |