But the world's rushing tide washes up to his feet,
And leaps the soft barriers that bound his retreat;
The tumult of camps, surges out on the breeze,
And ever seems mocking his Capuan ease.
He dare not be happy, or tranquil, or blest,
While his soil by the feet of invaders is prest:
What brooks it, tho' still he be pale as a ghost?
If he languish or fail,--let him fail at his post.

~Margaret Junkin Preston, "Beechenbrook; A Rhyme of the War" (1895).