  This is he: the same, who on the warrant of a man Stood up, gave Fortune battle; to her bitterest face Cried out, “I’ll front your minions ere their slave-hand trace On free men’s backs, in sorry writing as no other can, The crooked cypher which smug worldlings plan, Expound, to key and color of their lust-fed wills, As the all-in-all a tardy Destiny fulfills, By its star, ports safe, ’gainst stress of man, Her, hereto, drifting and unruddered van. The same, who had his breeding at their rude expense, Whose hardy training, to the pithy core, So took, each fated tutor wonders evermore Who wed such aptness to mere mortal sense. In the gross, a bear; broad streak of fox; unsaintly, grim; Withal, what Titan’s mettle gave its heat to him, What Spark re-tempered, that may ne’er grow cold, This hero’s substance from a peasant’s mold? |
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