Classic Poem

Not the sharp torture of the critic's pen,
The curse of genius in our days, tho' scorn'd,
Nor full fore-knowledge of the ban which men
Would set upon thee, Lady, have suborn'd
Thee from the simple truth; nor that gay crown
Of dry gilt leaves and roses overblown,
Which intellectual cliques delight to give
To wits and scribes of drawing-room renown,
And they, debased, on bended knees receive,
Weighs 'gainst the awful claims of that which you believe.

What you assert the critics will deny,
What you deplore pronounce eternal law,
Sneer at the echo of your bitterest sigh,
At home lock up your book, abroad decry,
Quashing your doctrine with some dusty saw.
Sincerely vow'd to every high command,
And bent on duty with a stedfast soul,
Truth for your only monarch, hand in hand
With all who own the same august control,
No word of pity, if the storm should beat,
Need any voice bestow which calls you dear;
You will not quail beneath the foolish heat,
Nor mourn anathemas you do not fear.
Truth is, your strong and loyal heart will say,
Of all her martyrs the sufficing friend,
And, when the lamp of love has paled away,
Will without fail her own great glory lend.
Oh voices raised in passionate protest once,
Brave spirits from whose pains our freedoms spring,
Who dared your birthright of delights renounce,
And, finding God, feel rich in everything,—
How long shall we your noble names revere,
And write your actions where our sons may see,
Your ancient utterance in our hearts ensphere,
And, when your steps are follow'd, turn and flee?