At Marathon and proud Thermopylæ:
Gray Rome shall never lose the magic charm,
That valor's fire can pour along a land;
That charm shall bid the hearts of mankind warm,
Long after her last stone hath ceased to stand:
Yet, thou, Virginia! art a prouder land,
For when thy hills become red shrines to Right;
Thy plains become the spots, where, smiling, stand,
The angels, gentle Peace and true Delight.
And now, how fair thy homes! on every hand,