  Let others write of battles fought, Of bloody, ghastly fields, Where honor greets the man who wins, And death the man who yields; But I will write of him who fights And vanquishes his sins, Who struggles on through weary years Against himself, and wins. He is a hero stanch and brave Who fights an unseen foe, And puts at last beneath his feet His passions base and low; Who stands erect in manhood’s might, Undaunted, undismayed,— The bravest man who drew a sword In foray or in raid. It calls for something more than brawn Or muscle to o’ercome An enemy who marcheth not With banner, plume, or drum,— A foe forever lurking nigh, With silent, stealthy tread; Forever near your board by day, At night beside your bed. All honor, then, to that brave heart, Though poor or rich he be, Who struggles with his baser part,— Who conquers and is free! He may not wear a hero’s crown, Or fill a hero’s grave; But truth will place his name among The bravest of the brave. |
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