PROGRESS.
In Progress you have little faith, say you:
Men will maintain dear interests, wreak base hates,
By force, and gentle women choose their mates
Most amorously from the gilded fighting crew:
The human heart Bellona’s mad halloo
Will ever fire to dicing with the Fates.
‘Now at this time,’ says History, ‘those two States
‘Stood ready their past wrestling to renew.
‘They sharpened arms and showed them, like the brutes
‘Whose haunches quiver. But a yellow blight
‘Fell on their waxing harvests. They deferred
‘The bloody settlement of their disputes
‘Till God should bless them better.’ They did right.
And naming Progress, both shall have the word.