Classic Poem

I am a Man! Who more than I?
If any, let him spring
Into the light of God's free sky,
And frisk his best and sing.

God's own presentment I can claim,
And can the die display;
The bourn from which the heavens came
I know, nor fear the way.

And well that I both dare and can:
Let but a maiden pass,
My spirit cries:—Thou art a Man!
And so I kiss the lass.

A blush comes o'er the maiden fair,
Her bodice grows too tight;
I am a Man, she is aware—
That's why her dress is tight.

How does she scream for grace if I
Surprise her deshabille!
I am a Man! Why did she cry?
She wishes me no ill.

I am a Man! It is enough,
And in that name I dare
A Kaiser's daughter to rebuff,
Despite the rags I wear.

Princesses at this golden spell
Their charms to me unfold:
Dost hear them call?—Ha, mark it well,
Ye varlets clad in gold!

I am a Man! That ye may know
When I my lyre install;
With triumph tones it seems to glow,
Else would it only crawl.

From out this same creative fount
In which we men have birth,
Powers divine and genius mount—
All that is great on earth.

Tyrants my talisman abhors,
And spurns beneath its tread;
Or, failing that, as guide explores
The regions of the dead.

By Granicus my talisman
Laid the proud Persian low,
And when Rome German soil o'erran,
Rome's might could overthrow.

How proud the Roman looks, since first
To Africa he came!
With fiery darts his eyeballs burst,
As Hecla belches flame.

Then comes a knave of jolly mien,
And to the world he cries:—
“Proclaim that ye have Marius seen
Where Carthage ruined lies!”

So cries the Roman in his pride,
Still mighty in his fall.
A man he is, and nought beside,
Yet domineers o'er all.

His grandsons thereupon began
Their heritage to drain,
And set to work, just as one man,
To crow in dulcet strain.

Shame on the miserable horde!
Wretches who treat in jest
Man's lofty rights, man's high reward,
Great heaven's very best.

They saunter aimlessly through life
Like pumpkins rudely fraught
As human heads by yokel's knife,
And in their skulls is—nought.

As in retorts a chemist tries
An alcoholic wine,
Their spirit to the devil flies,
And they remain supine.

A woman's looks their soul unman,
They dread to meet her eye;
And if they dared—yet never can—
Why, they had better die.

And so an honest man they fear,
His fortune gives them pain;
Who cannot make a man, can ne'er
For man love entertain.

And so I hold my head on high,
And plume myself, and sing:—
I am a Man! Who more than I!
And frisk my best and sing.