Leaves of Grass

  Not the pilot has charged himself to bring his ship into port,
      though beaten back and many times baffled;
  Not the pathfinder penetrating inland weary and long,
  By deserts parch’d, snows chill’d, rivers wet, perseveres till he
      reaches his destination,
  More than I have charged myself, heeded or unheeded, to compose
      march for these States,
  For a battle-call, rousing to arms if need be, years, centuries hence.