Classic Poem

Is it but chance that in thy treasured verse
There is no pæan, no exulting line,
No phrase of martial fervor, to record
The Briton's prowess on our Western shore?
There was no lapse of valiance in thy race—
Or else had Time forgot to mark the years.
Nor hast thou since had lack of many a voice
Whose words, like wings to seed, on every air
From land to hospitable land import
Thy progeny of courage, justice, truth.
Why, then, when all our songs were resonant,
Were all thy singers silent? Candor, speak!
There is a dæmon makes the Muses dumb
When they would praise the wrong: but Liberty
From Nature has inheritance of speech—
The forest harp, the flood's processional,
The glorious antiphone of every shore,
When these are dumb, then poets may be mute!