The powers whose altars know no fire.[n10]
But we behind that martial train
Inglorious left remain,
Old and frail, and feebly leaning
Strength as of childhood on a staff.
Yea! even as life’s first unripe marrow
In the tender bones are we,
From war’s harsh service free.
For hoary Eld, life’s leaf up-shrunken,
Totters, his three-footed way