I

What lineage so noble as from Sires, Laureled by Freedom? For, who, but the brave Have glory to transmit? The Hero's grave Blooms ever. It is there the spring retires To dream to flowers, her heart and soul desires, When winter's whitening wind, like wash of wave, Sweeps mauseleums of the skulk and knave From mounts of glare off to Oblivion's mires.

The bloom, for which mere wealth lacks length of arm, And fainting Time takes for reviving scent, Fame, with bright eyes from heart and soul content, Forms wreaths for Valor's Daughters--crowns that charm Not with death-smells from Human welfare rent But breath of Country's rescue from dire harm.