Time is, after all, the greatest of poets; and the sons of Memory stand a better chance of being the heirs of Fame.
The rich man's sons inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft, white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn.
But better far it is to speak One simple word, which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men.
The New World's sons from England's breast we drew Such milk as bids remember whence we came, Proud of her past wherefrom our future grew, This window we inscribe with Raleigh's fame.