’Twas met as warriors meet the fray they woo:
To shield young Freedom’s wild-wood homes he flew;
And—fire within his fortress, foes without,
The rattling death-shot and th’ infuriate shout—
He, where the fierce flames burst their smoky wreath,
And war’s red game raged madliest, toyed with death;
Till spent the storm, and Victory’s youngest son
Glory’s first fruits, his earliest wreath, had won.
Weep not for him, whose lustrous life has known
No field of fame he has not made his own: