God of our fathers, known of old—­
Lord of our far-flung battle-line—­
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—­
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—­lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies—­
The captains and the kings depart—­
Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart. 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—­lest we forget!

    Far-called our navies melt away—­
      On dune and headland sinks the fire—­
    Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
      Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! 
    Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
    Lest we forget—­lest we forget!

    If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
      Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—­
    Such boasting as the Gentiles use
      Or lesser breeds without the Law—­
    Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
    Lest we forget—­lest we forget!

    For heathen heart that puts her trust
      In reeking tube and iron shard—­
    All valiant dust that builds on dust,
      And guarding calls not Thee to guard—­
    For frantic boast and foolish word,
    Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!  Amen.

RUDYARD KIPLING.

 OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT.

“Ozymandias of Egypt,” by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822).  This sonnet is a rebuke to the insolent pride of kings and empires.  It is extremely picturesque.  It finds a place here because more elderly scholars of good judgment are pleased with it.  I remember an old gray-haired scholar in Chicago who often recited it to his friends merely because it touched his fancy.

    I met a traveller from an antique land
    Who said:  “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
    Stand in the desert.  Near them on the sand,
    Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
    And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
    Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
    Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
    The hand that mock’d them and the heart that fed;
    And on the pedestal these words appear: 
   ’My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: 
    Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
    Nothing beside remains.  Round the decay
    Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
    The lone and level sands stretch far away;”

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

 MORTALITY.

“Mortality” (by William Knox, 1789-1825) is always quoted as Lincoln’s favourite poem.

    O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 
    Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
    A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
    He passes from life to his rest in the grave.

    The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
    Be scattered around and together be laid;
    And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
    Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.