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!