Classic Poem

These times deserve no song—they but deride
The poet's holy craft,—nor his alone;
Methinks as little courtesy is shown
To what was chivalry in days of pride:
Honor but meets with mock:—the worldling shakes
His money-bags, and cries—“My strength is here;
O'erthrows my enemy, his empire takes,
And makes the ally serve, the alien fear!”
Is love the object? Cash is conqueror,—
Wins hearts as soon as empires—puts his foot
Upon the best affections, and will spur
His way to eloquence, when Faith stands mute;
And for Religion,—can we hope for her,
When love and valor serve the same poor brute!