Good poetry has a rhyme and rythm. Great poetry has raw, emotive power. This is one of the most powerful pieces I know of.
    
  ...Oh FREEDOM! thou art not, as poets dream,
    
 A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,
    
 And wavy tresses gushing from the cap
    
 With which the Roman master crowned his slave
    
 When he took of the gyves. A bearded man,
    
 Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand
    
 Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow,
    
 Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred
    
 With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs
    
 Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched
    
 His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee;
    
 They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven.
    
 Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep,
    
 And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires,
    
 Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound,
    
 The links are shivered, and the prison walls
    
 Fall outward: terribly thou springest forth,
    
 As springs the flame above a burning pile,
    
 And shoutest to the nations, who return
    
 Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.
    
  
    
 Thy birthright was not given by human hands:
    
 Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields,
    
 While yet our race was few, thou sat’st with him,
    
 To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars,
    
 And teach the reed to utter simple airs.
    
 Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood,
    
 Didst war upon the panther and the wolf,
    
 His only foes; and thou with him didst draw
    
 The earliest furrows on the mountain side,
    
 Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself,
    
 Thy enemy, although of reverend look,
    
 Hoary with many years, and far obeyed,
    
 Is later born than thou; and as he meets
    
 The grave defiance of thine elder eye,
    
 The usurper trembles in his fastness.
    
  
    
 Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years,
    
 But he shall fade into a feebler age;
    
 Feebler yet subtler. He shall weave his snares,
    
 And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap
    
 His withered hands, and from their ambush call
    
 His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send
    
 Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien,
    
 To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words
    
 To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth,
    
 Twine around thee threads of steel, light thread upon thread,
    
 That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms
    
 With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh! Not yet
    
 May’st thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by
    
 Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids
    
 In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps,
    
 And thou must watch and combat till the day
    
 Of the new earth and heaven. ...
    
   From:The Antiquity of Freedom'
                                     William Cullen Bryant.