Not with a conqueror's song <br />Thy courts, O God, we throng, <br />For battles gained; <br />No cannon's sulphurous throat, <br />No trumpet, gives its note, <br />No banners o'er us float, <br />With fresh blood stained. <br /> <br /> <br />Over no captive kings, <br />Our eagle spreads her wings, <br />Or whets her beak; <br />Nor, o'er the battle-plain, <br />Where death-shot fell, like rain, <br />Where lie in gore the slain, <br />Comes her shrill shriek. <br /> <br /> <br />For Art, which thou hast given, <br />The tribute due to Heaven <br />We come to pay; <br />Art, that, to deck her halls, <br />On air and vapor calls, <br />On winds and water-falls, <br />And all obey. <br /> <br /> <br />Art, that, from shore to shore, <br />Moves, without sail or oar, <br />'Gainst winds and tides; <br />Or, high o'er earth and seas, <br />Sits in her car at ease, <br />And heavenward, on the breeze, <br />Triumphant rides. <br /> <br /> <br />Art, that, through mountain bars, <br />Breaks, that her horseless cars <br />Self-moved may go; <br />And, without looking back, <br />Rolls, on her iron track, <br />Where the white cataract <br />Thunders below. <br /> <br /> <br />Art, that on spool or reel, <br />Winds the smooth silk or steel <br />Spun by her hand, <br />Then, with her touch of fire, <br />Draws, from the chord or wire, <br />Tones that an angel quire <br />Well might demand. <br /> <br /> <br />Art, that to thee, Most High! <br />Gladly doth sanctify <br />Her works and powers; <br />Lord, ere our tongues are still, <br />Our hands forget their skill, <br />To thy most holy will <br />Devote we ours.<br /><br />John Pierpont<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hymns-and-odes-for-charity-occasions-xii/
