 | [Poems by Hayne in] The book of the sonnet |  |
237
[X. Spirits there are inwrought with vilest clay]
Spirits there are inwrought with vilest clay,Which bear no God-like stamp of heavenly art,
Whose envious instincts writhe with bitter smart
Whene'er they feel some worthier nature's sway.
Ah! who so basely-born, so curst as they!—
Poor reptiles!—whose envenomed passions dart
Back to transfix their own corrupted heart,
And speed the progress of the soul's decay.
We pity such, yet loathe them. Who can keep
His honest scorn unspoken, should he see
These human vipers strive their fangs to steep
In the soul-blood of fame's Nobility?
Who but is glad when the swift lightnings leap
Of withering wrath, to blast them utterly?
| [Poems by Hayne in] The book of the sonnet | |