Oh! rude the cradle in which each was rocked,
The infant Nation, and the infant State!
Rough nurses were the Centuries, that mocked
At mother-kisses, and for mother-arms
Gave their young nurslings sudden harsh alarms,
Quick blows and stern rebuffs. They bade them wait,
Often in cold and hunger, while the feast
Was spread for others, and, though last not least,
Gave them sharp swords for playthings, and the din
Of actual battle for the mimic strife
That childhood glories in!
Yet not the less they loved them. Spartans they,
Who could not rear a weak, effeminate brood.
Better the forest’s awful solitude,
Better the desert spaces, where the day
Wanders from dawn to dusk and finds no life!