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Poem by William Gilmore Simms The Decay of a People THIS the true sign of ruin to a race — It undertakes no march, and day by day Drowses in camp, or, with the laggard’s pace, Walks sentry o’er possessions that decay; Destined, with sensible waste, to fleet away; — For the first secret of continued power Is the continued conquest; — all our sway Hath surety in the uses of the hour; If that we waste, in vain walled town and lofty tower! William Gilmore Simms William Gilmore Simms's other poems: 1213 Views |
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