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Si te fortè mea gravis uret sarcina charlæ
Hor. Lib. I. Epist. 13.
A. You told me, I remember, glory, built On selfish principles, is shame and guilt; The deeds that men admire as half divine, Stark naught, because corrupt in their design. Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tears The laurel that the very lightning spares;
Laurels won in the field of Honour,
Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust,
B. I grant that, men continuing what they are
Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews, Reward his mem'ry, dear to ev'ry muse, Who, with a courage of unshaken root, In honour's field advancing his firm foot, Plants it upon the line that Justice draws, And will prevail or perish in her cause, 'Tis to the virtues of such inen, man owes His portion in the good that heav'n bestows. And, when recording history displays Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days; Tells of a few stout hearts that fought and died Where dutý plac'd thein, at their country's side; The man that is not mor'd with what he reads, That takes not fire at their heroic deeds