There is a magnanimity in recklessness of fame, so fame be well deserving, That rusheth on in fearless might, the conscious sense of merit: And there is a littleness in jealousy of fame, looking as aware of weakness, That creepeth cautiously along, afraid that its title will be challenged. The wild boar, full of beechmast, flingeth him down among the brambles; Secure in bristly strength, without a watch, he sleepeth: But the hare, afraid to feed, croucheth in its own soft form; Wakefully with timid eyes, and quivering ears, he listeneth. Even so, a giant's might is bound up in the soul of Genius, His neck is strong with confidence, and he goeth tusked with power: Sturdily he roameth in the forest, or sunneth him in fen and field, And scareth from his marshy lair a host of fearful foes. But there is a mimic Talent, whose safety lieth in its quickness, A timorous thing of doubling guile, that scarce can face a friend: This one is captious of reproof, provident to snatch occasion, Greedy of applause, and vexed to lose one tittle of the glory. He is a poor warder of his fame, who is ever on the watch to keep it spotless; Such care argueth debility, a garrison relying on its sentinel. Passive strength shall scorn excuses, patiently waiting a re-action, He wotteth well that truth is great, and must prevail at last; But fretful weakness hasteth to explain, anxiously dreading prejudice, And ignorant that perishable falsehood dieth as a branch cut off. Purity of motive and nobility of mind shall rarely condescend To prove its rights, and prate of wrongs, or evidence its worth to others. And it shall be small care to the high and happy conscience What jealous friends, or envious foes, or common fools may judge. Should the lion turn and rend every snarling jackal, Or an eagle be stopt in his career to punish the petulance of sparrows? Should the palm-tree bend his crown to chide the briar at his feet, Nor kindly help its climbing, if it hope, and be ambitious? Should the nightingale account it worth her pains to vindicate her music, Before some sorry finches, that affect to judge of song? No: many an injustice, many a sneer, and slur, Is passed aside with noble scorn by lovers of true fame: For well they wot that glory shall be tinctured good or evil, By the character of those who give it, as wine is flavoured by the wineskin: So that worthy fame floweth only from a worthy fountain, But from an ill-conditioned troop the best report is worthless. And if the sensibility of genius count his injuries in secret, Wisely will he hide the pains a hardened herd would mock: For the great mind well may be sad to note such littleness in brethren, The while he is comforted and happy in the firmest assurance of desert.