Classic Poem

Their tents are pitch'd, their spades have broke the soil,
The strong oak thunders as it topples down,
Their lily-handed youths essay the toil,
That from the forest rends its ancient crown.
Where are your splendid halls, which ladies tread,
Your lordly boards with every luxury spread,
Virginian sires—ye men of old renown?
Though few and faint, your ever-living chain
Holds in its grasp two worlds, across the surging main.