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