ART proud, my country, that these mighty ones,
Wearing the jeweled splendor of old days,
Come bringing prodigality of praise
To thee amid thy light of westering suns;
Bidding their blaring trumpets and their guns
Salute thee, late into their crooked ways
Now fallen, to their sorrow and amaze,
Blood of whose hearts the ancient honor runs?
Nay, fear them rather, for they cry with glee,
“ She has become as one of us, who gave
All that she had to set a people free:
She wears our image — she that loved the slave!”
Fear them, for there is blood upon their hands,
And on their heads the curse of ruined lands.
John White Chadwick.