With captive warriors at their chariot wheels—
Nor hang, like relics, in our holiest fane,
The flags that blush with war’s unhallowed stains.—
No, theirs are triumphs war can never bring!
Theirs are the pæans guardian seraphs sing!
Their noblest banner is the Book of Truth!
Their trophies—age, and infancy, and youth!
’Tis theirs to free—exalt—and not debase—
The painted brothers of our common race!
Nor stripe—nor tribute—nor oppressive sway