His stately form shall soon be seen no more
Through all his father's land, the Atlantic shore;
Beneath the sun, to us so kind, they melt,
More heavily each day our rule is felt.
The tale is old,—we do as mortals must:
Might makes right here, but God and Time are just.
Though, near the drama hastens to its close,
On this last scene awhile your eyes repose;
The polished Greek and Scythian meet again,
The ancient life is lived by modern men;