Thy blue eyes look from thy unguileful mind
Like the boy orphan's in thy mother's brood,
Or tender on the wife thy manhood wooed,
Who now is speechless though her look so kind:
The violets are not more freshly dewed
Than thy bright eyes and country heart behind.
Industry, Freedom, Solvency thy heirs,
They have marched on beyond the old frontiers,
Clean are their wheatfields thou has cleansed of tares,
And their remembrance thy retirement cheers.
I think how oft that million-blessing palm
Has crossed my hand with no official fears
And seem to talk to Nestor in his calm
When Homer knew him in the vale of years.