I did not waste the gifts which nature gave, Nor slothful lay in the Circéan bower; Nor did I yield myself the willing slave Of lust for pride, for riches, or for power. No! in my heart a nobler spirit dwelt; For constant was my faith in manhood's dower; Man--made in God's own image--and I felt How of our own accord we courted shame, Until to idols like ourselves we knelt, And so renounced the great and glorious claim Of freedom, our immortal heritage. I saw how bigotry, with spiteful aim, Smote at the searching eyesight of the sage, How error stole behind the steps of truth, And cast delusion on the sacred page. So, as a champion, even in early youth I waged my battle with a purpose keen; Nor feared the hand of terror, nor the tooth Of serpent jealousy. And I have been With starry Galileo in his cell, That wise magician with the brow serene, Who fathomed space; and I have seen him tell The wonders of the planetary sphere, And trace the ramparts of heaven's citadel On the cold flag-stones of his dungeon drear. And I have walked with Hampden and with Vane-- Names once so gracious to an English ear-- In days that never may return again. My voice, though not the loudest, hath been heard Whenever freedom raised her cry of pain, And the faint effort of the humble bard Hath roused up thousands from their lethargy, To speak in words of thunder. What reward Was mine, or theirs? It matters not; for I Am but a leaf cast on the whirling tide, Without a hope or wish, except to die. But truth, asserted once, must still abide, Unquenchable, as are those fiery springs Which day and night gush from the mountain-side, Perpetual meteors girt with lambent wings, Which the wild tempest tosses to and fro, But cannot conquer with the force it brings. Yet I, who ever felt another's woe More keenly than my own untold distress; I, who have battled with the common foe, And broke for years the bread of bitterness; Who never yet abandoned or betrayed The trust vouchsafed me, nor have ceased to bless, Am left alone to wither in the shade, A weak old man, deserted by his kind-- Whom none will comfort in his age, nor aid! Oh! let me not repine! A quiet mind, Conscious and upright, needs no other stay; Nor can I grieve for what I leave behind, In the rich promise of eternal day. Henceforth to me the world is dead and gone, Its thorns unfelt, its roses cast away: And the old pilgrim, weary and alone, Bowed down with travel, at his Master's gate Now sits, his task of life-long labour done, Thankful for rest, although it comes so late, After sore journey through this world of sin, In hope, and prayer, and wistfulness to wait, Until the door shall ope, and let him in. HERMOTIMUS