XVII.

Achilles came from Homer's Jove-like brain, Pavilioned‘ mid his ships where Thetis trod; But he whose image dominates this plain Came from the hand of God!

Yet, of his life, which shall all time adorn I dare not sing; to try the theme would be To drink as‘ twere that Scandinavian Horn Whose tip was in the Sea.

I bow my head and go upon my ways, Who tells that story can but gild the gold — Could I pile Alps on Apennines of praise The tale would not be told.

Not his the blade which lyric fables say Cleft Pyrenees from ridge to nether bed, But his the sword which cleared the Sacred Way For Freedom's feet to tread.

Not Caesar's genius nor Napoleon's skill Gave him proud mast'ry o'er the trembling earth; But great in honesty, and sense and will — He was the “man of worth.”

He knew not North, nor South, nor West, nor East: Childless himself, Father of States he stood, Strong and sagacious as a Knight turned Priest, And vowed to deeds of good.

Compared with all Earth's heroes I may say He was, with even half his virtues hid, Greater in what his hand refrained than they Were great in what they did.

And thus his image dominates all time, Uplifted like the everlasting dome Which rises in a miracle sublime Above eternal Rome.

On Rome's once blooming plain where'er we stray That dome majestic rises on the view, Its Cross a-glow with every wandering ray That shines along the Blue.

So his vast image shadows all the lands, So holds forever Man's adoring eye, And o'er the Union which he left it stands Our Cross against the sky!