Removed from his sires by long stretch of years, Yet so closely virtued, to their wisdom bred, Their bloods long wasted, but which then ran red, Their dogged valors, which had now been fears, Are still his coaches and untimely peers, Sit at his board, carve at the ghostly spread, Flout tame the sweeter wine, for which the ages bled, And cups paid bitter down in price of tears, As, rising to his call, they quench their eerie fast, And toast, in heady measures of a wormy Old, 'Gainst newer truths that mock their pledgescold, This, their own grim shadow from a weary past. And yet, if were their eyes awake, should they not grow To keener vision, should a cuter ear Not catch Time's footfall, nor so dare the Law, Which, how so trespass do impugn it here-- As if its charter on mere probate ran-- Stars yet Time's reaches since his maze began, Illumes the pathway of the utmost sphere: Yon law of Free, within whose widening groove, For franker answer 'tward the Life, 'tward all-- Some response more worthy of the conscious soul-- God, man, and thing, and Nations move? Ay; should they not wonder at that slow-to-learn will, Heir to large occasions, but to spurn them still? PEACE PENDING. Vae Victis! Nay, what Triumph rings Exultant with that haughty word? To grace its clarion, tempering brings No music of a nobler chord? Twice trophied, not what gentler strain? Which, wiped no blot its honor caught, Would, rank at heart, with flustered brain, Still foul the cheer kind victory brought? In the bugle's drown the choral song, What strange, deep notes 'twould auguring breathe? Deck fresh the brow of fated Strong With teemy bud of baser wreath? For, lo, it was a gallant fight! And, tho' ravening Nature still stood up, Pledged fierce, in her own drops, the bleeding Right, Nay, bade her drain the chaliced Cup. Tho' unlineal stripped the lineal True, Set low the faith, acclaimed the doubt, What witness here but purging threw Its passioned gage, to bear it out, That worse than steel or murd'rous flare Of gaping mouth, whose sudden gust Flicks out the flame of little life, it were to bear The yoke that galls with rude Unjust; That they slay not half, who merely kill, Nor holds within the execution of the sword Yon cunning stab which numbs the will, In its drowse lays on the bondsman's cord; That sweet blood spilt in noble cause, Somehow, sustaining blends with Heaven's dew, So partner'd, for fresh come-up grows, Past choke of False, the larger True;