  My friend, heart-homage, in this simple strain, I yield thee for thy toil to aid the Right! Too long hath genius, with a guilty slight, Passed by the thousands who life's load sustain Of scorn and indigence,—to court the vain And foppish crowd,—or laud, in phrases dight With fulsome flattery, some pampered wight Who counts himself for polished porcelain,— The poor for vulgar clay! A nobler path,— Disdaining hireling censure, hireling praise,— Thou, for thyself, hast chosen. Still, in faith That thy true toil shall hasten the boon days Of brotherhood renewed, brother, toil on!— |
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