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

As mountains seem less glorious viewed too nigh,
So, often, do the great whom we decry
⁠Gigantic 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 delays
With fond and emulous devotion try,—
⁠⁠⁠When they are dead!