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| O RACE that Cæsar knew, | |
| That won stern Roman praise, | |
| What land not envies you | |
| The laurel of these days? | |
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| You built your cities rich | 5 |
| Around each towered hall,— | |
| Without, the statued niche, | |
| Within, the pictured wall. | |
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| Your ship-thronged wharves, your marts | |
| With gorgeous Venice vied. | 10 |
| Peace and her famous arts | |
| Were yours: though tide on tide | |
| |
| Of Europe’s battle scourged | |
| Black field and reddened soil, | |
| From blood and smoke emerged | 15 |
| Peace and her fruitful toil. | |
| |
| Yet when the challenge rang, | |
| “The War-Lord comes; give room!” | |
| Fearless to arms you sprang | |
| Against the odds of doom. | 20 |
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| Like your own Damien | |
| Who sought that leper’s isle | |
| To die a simple man | |
| For men with tranquil smile, | |
| |
| So strong in faith you dared | 25 |
| Defy the giant, scorn | |
| Ignobly to be spared, | |
| Though trampled, spoiled, and torn, | |
| |
| And in your faith arose | |
| And smote, and smote again, | 30 |
| Till those astonished foes | |
| Reeled from their mounds of slain, | |
| |
| The faith that the free soul, | |
| Untaught by force to quail, | |
| Through fire and dirge and dole | 35 |
| Prevails and shall prevail. | |
| |
| Still for your frontier stands | |
| The host that knew no dread, | |
| Your little, stubborn land’s | |
| Nameless, immortal dead. | 40 |
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