O Country of the Sun's warm plenteous hand

To every germ of virtue, how below

Thy progress, mope Gold Mongers to and fro,

Who think they're vaulting from sunlight so grand,

It forms thy chiefest glory. Closely scanned,

They are gross worms, each with the thought to grow

"The Conqueror," as staged by Edgar Poe

For darking planets and a world, Last Manned.

Those worms that, moving, think they move the earth,

Or, under Growth's equestrian statue, think

They hold the horse and hero from the brink,

Are pitifully not a glance's worth,

As of thy glory; they but foul the chink,

If not of thee in warming Good to birth.