Classic Poem

At thee the Mocker sneers in cold derision,
Through thee he seeks to desecrate and dim
Glory for which he hath no soul or vision,
For " God " and " Angel " are but sounds with him.
He makes the jewels of the heart his booty,
And scoffs at Man's Belief and Woman's Beauty.

Yet thou — a lowly shepherdess! — descended
Not from a kingly but a godly race,
Art crowned by Poisy! Amid the splendid
Of Heaven's high stars she builds thy dwellingplace,
Garlands thy temples with a wreath of glory,
And swathes thy memory in eternal Story.

The Base of this weak world exult at seeing
The Fair defaced, the Lofty in the dust;
Yet grieve not! There are godlike hearts in being
Which worship still the Beautiful and Just.
Let Momus and his mummers please the crowd,
Of nobleness alone a noble mind is proud.