To John Pierpont

Not to the poet, but the man, I bring
In friendship's fearless trust my offering:
How much it lacks I feel, and thou wilt see,
Yet well I know that thou hast deem'ed with me
Life all too earnest, and its time too short,
For dreamy ease and Fancy's graceful sport;
And girded for thy constant strife with wrong,
Like Nehemiah, fighting while he wrought
The broken walls of Zion, even thy song
Hath a rude martial tone, a blow ill every thought!