‘How rarely, my countrymen! Merit is rewarded,
With respect or riches, to its value, pains and end?
It thuds like tales from ghosts, land,
If any soul possesses so as to, which merit called;
By what tart name, and what jarring sound,
Or else any merit which one get hold.
For disgrace, my countrymen reject this canting sprain!
Pardon, what have an excellent big man attain?
Place? Names? Wages? A diamond procession?
Or a chair of power which the votes obtain?
Majestic-ness and excellence are not ways, but superfluities!
It is full of riches, friends, always.
The real honest merit? Has three assets, love and inner light,
And serene beliefs, habitual as newborn breath:
And three unyielding faiths, more definite than day and night,
Faith in self, super self-his creator and the un-winged death.
“To such souls, all the graceful tunes raise,
Even saints and angels pen the poetry of praise.”
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