Читать книгу Freedom, Truth and Beauty - Edward Doyle - Страница 14

Those crowns, not cold from death sweat on the brow,

At sight of apparitions with fixed stare,

But warm with summer, conjuring beauties rare—

Wilt not. They are dewed daily by your vow,

Daughters of sires who, to no thrall, would bow!

Which, at the alter with raised hands, ye swear,

Cheering the blessed spirits, gathered there,

That, like their Mothers, are their daughters now.

True women—and therefore, craft foilers clever—

With sons for your hearts utterance, ye sue

Not, but like Barry to the British crew,

Ye cry out: "What! we strike our colors? Never!

Fie, shot! fie, Gold! these colors, since they drew

Their first star-breath, are God's, and God's forever."