If, after long-drawn years, thy fretted vault
Bears no inscription graved in words of praise.
No storied urn, or marble sculptured bust,
Shall e’er record thy name—but fleeting breath—
For thou hast brought the N.R.A. to dust,
And laid thereon the dull cold hand of death.
’Twas thou forbade it—yes, thou, and thou alone
Their growing talents crushed; the deed’s confined
To thee, who, although dwelling near a throne
Hast shut the gates that bound thee to thy kind.