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!