Page:Poems (Fields)-1.djvu/35

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THE POST OF HONOR.
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But for that aid a foot-worn soldier foundWhen limping wounded o'er the bloody ground, —"My steed is thine," the pitying hero cried, And lifted up a brother to his side.
 Slow to applaud, our pulses rarely boundWhen Genius walks his own enchanted ground, While many a son, though hailed in distant lands,Receives no chaplet at our tardy hands.Not thus, on other soil, true greatness pines,Not thus old age to poverty declines;See Worth advanced, and power-compelling Mind On some proud hill-top gloriously enshrined,While sterling Merit leaves his lowly plain To found a peerage, dated from his brain.Yet, stern old shores, still on thy rocks they standWho guard the portals of our native land!Our Country first, their glory and their pride,Land of their hopes, land where their fathers died, When in the right, they 'I keep thy Honor bright, When in the wrong, they 'll die to set it right.
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