Song, legend, history, I scan in vain;
Outside of Holy Writ, no shape appears
So godlike as thy homely form; the spheres
Darken and die, thy glory shall not wane.
Monarchs have sat self-crowned upon the Seine
And on the Tiber; nations sick with fears
Have builded altars to them, drenched with tears
And smoking with a hecatomb of slain.
O Christ of Freedom, no high altars fume
For thee, but freely flow the tears and blood,