High-mindedness, a jealousy for good,
A loving-kindness for the great man’s fame,
Dwells here and there with people of no name,
In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:
And where we think the truth least understood,
Oft may be found a “singleness of aim,”
That ought to frighten into hooded shame
A money-mongering, pitiable brood.
How glorious this affection for the cause
Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly!
What when a stout unbending champion awes
Envy and malice to their native sty?
Unnumbered souls breathe out a still applause,
Proud to behold him in his country’s eye.
You May Also Like:
- Specimen Of An Induction To A Poem
- Sonnet Ix. Keen, Fitful Gusts Are
- Sonnet. A Dream, After Reading Dante’s Episode Of Paulo And Francesca
- To George Felton Mathew
- Written In The Cottage Where Burns Was Born
- To A Cat
- The Eve Of Saint Mark. A Fragment
- Ode. Written On The Blank Page Before Beaumont And Fletcher’s Tragi-Comedy ‘The Fair Maid Of The Inn’