Classic Poem

Well , if it be that Fortune's sun is setting,
And friends that cheer'd thee in thy happier day
Turn from thy griefs, thy glorious gifts forgetting,
And faithless prove when faith had been thy stay:
Thou art thine own mind's master, though forsaken
Of those who came and crouch'd while all was bright;
Thou bear'st a soul that storms have never shaken,
And resolute will to tread the path of right.

And this is still to conquer, though we perish!
'Tis no defeat, when, steadfast in our hearts,
We yet, o'er all, the sacred purpose cherish,
Though every hope that grew with it departs; —
The will that moves us to the strife unquailing,
Still keeps the faith unchanging it believes;
Though in the hope that dream'd of conquest failing,
The future still avenges and — retrieves!

And, to thyself thus true in every fortune,
The very foes must honor who o'erthrow:
Calm, steadfast, firm — oh! why shouldst thou importune
The fate whose seasons ever come and go?
Thou hast no loss in ever-losing struggle,
For that thou strivest still in Duty's cause;
Rejecting still the bauble and the juggle,
True to thyself, the virtues and the laws.