 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
The Soul's Defiance. —Anonymous.
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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 wo
To those already there;
Yet still the spirit, that sustains
This last severe distress,
Shall smile upon its keenest pains,
And scorn redress.
Strike deep—my heart shall bear;
Thou canst but add one bitter wo
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—O, why delay?
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart—
A weak, reluctant prey;
For still the spirit, firm and free,
Triumphant in the last dismay,
Wrapt in its own eternity,
Shall smiling pass away.
Aim sure—O, why delay?
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart—
A weak, reluctant prey;
For still the spirit, firm and free,
Triumphant in the last dismay,
Wrapt in its own eternity,
Shall smiling pass away.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |