Leaders of Men

When they are dead, we heap the laurels highAbove them where, indifferent, they lie:We join their deeds to unaccustomed praise,And crown with garlands of immortal baysWhom, living, we but thought to crucify.

As mountains seem less glorious viewed too nigh,So, often, do the great whom we decryGigantic loom to our astonished gaze—When they are dead;

For, shamed by largeness, littlenesses die;And partisan and narrow hates put by,We shrine our heroes for the future days;And to atone our ignorant delaysWith fond and emulous devotion try,—When they are dead!