Not from the bloody field, <br />Borne on his battered shield, <br />By foes o'ercome, <br />But, from a sterner fight, <br />In the defence of Right, <br />Clothed in a conquerer's might, <br />We hail him home. <br /> <br /> <br />Where Slavery's minions cower <br />Before the servile power, <br />He bore their ban; <br />And, like an aged oak, <br />That braved the lightning's stroke, <br />When thunders round it broke, <br />Stood up, A MAN. <br /> <br /> <br />Nay-when they stormed aloud, <br />And round him, like a cloud, <br />Came, thick and black, <br />He, single-handed, strove, <br />And, like Olympian Jove, <br />With his own thunder, drove <br />The phalanx back. <br /> <br /> <br />No leafy wreath we twine, <br />Of oak or Isthmian pine, <br />To grace his brow; <br />Like his own locks of gray, <br />Such leaves would fall away, <br />As will the grateful lay, <br />We weave him now. <br /> <br /> <br />But Time shall touch the page, <br />That tells how Quincy's sage <br />Has dared to live, <br />Save as he touches wine, <br />Or Shakspeare's glowing line, <br />Or Raphael's forms divine, <br />New life to give.<br /><br />John Pierpont<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-24/
