I SAID to Sorrow's awful storm, That beat against my breast, Rage on -- thou may'st destroy this form, And lay it low at rest; But still the spirit that now brooks Thy tempest, raging high, Undaunted on its fury looks With steadfast eye. I said to Penury's meagre train, Come on -- your threats I brave; My last poor life-drop you may drain, And crush me to the grave; Yet still the spirit that endures Shall mock your force the while, And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours With bitter smile. I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, Pass on -- I heed you not; Ye may pursue me till my form And being are forgot; Yet still the spirit, which you see Undaunted by your wiles, Draws from its own nobility Its high-born smiles. I said to Friendship's menaced blow, Strike deep -- my heart shall bear; Thou canst but add one bitter woe To those already there; Yet still the spirit that sustains This last severe distress Shall smile upon its keenest pains, And scorn redress. I said to Death's uplifted dart, Aim sure -- oh, why delay? Thou wilt not find a fearful heart -- A weak, reluctant prey; For still the spirit, firm and free, Unruffled by this last dismay, Wrapt in its own eternity, Shall pass away. |