 | Poems |  |
65
INDEPENDENCE.
I.
Genius of Independence, list!In whate'er form thou dost exist—
Where'er thou dost abide;
Tho' ignorant of these lesser things,
I view thee o'er the heads of kings,
Despite their haughty pride.
The monarch on his envied throne
In golden chains may shine,
While humble worth that lives unknown
May be a son of thine.
Far better the latter!
Devoid of dazzling show,
His treasures are pleasures
That princes never know.
II.
The truly independent soul,Unawed by popular control,
Unseen in fashion's ways,
Is like a taper burning bright,
Which dissipates the gloom of night
With solitary rays.
Alas, how few such lights appear
In this dark world to burn!
And mostly those which glimmer here
We scarcely can discern.
A fair thing 's a rare thing,
Tho' found in any place;
A rover world over
Will say 't is aye the case.
III.
There is that would be thought to beA son of thine, accepted, free,—
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The wind he illy can abide
Strips off at last the lion's hide
And shows the ass within.
These spurious cases will abound
In plenty everywhere;
The genuine is seldom found—
More rich for being rare.
These must fall to dust all,
As counterfeiters should;
Those flourish, and nourish
The vital seeds of good.
IV.
Thine, Independence, is a giftAs spotless as the pearly drift,
As flying comets rare;
'T is noble in its very name,
In all its varied forms the same,
In all refulgent fair.
Above our ills and troubles here
It bears the spirit high;
It shields the soul from every fear
And quells the swelling sigh.
And the mind, tho' confined
In life to humble sphere,
It reaches, and teaches
This rule, “Thyself revere.”
V.
Now for myself a boon I ask,I hope to grant it is no task;
O, lift me from the rout!
When Meanness sneaks within my door,
And Selfishness shall tread my floor,
Help me to kick them out.
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Nor frankness want the less;
Whatever I appear to be
That same may I possess.
'T is well, then, to tell men
The faults to which they 're blind,
When ailings or failings
Are of a grievous kind.
VI.
Is there a “fellow-worm” on earth,Who, puffed with wealth or fancied worth,
Pretends o'er me to rule?
Then deep within my bosom lies
A something prompts me to despise
The pitiable fool.
I scorn him from my inmost heart
And hate his self-conceit,
Tho' half the world should take his part
And willing kiss his feet.
'T is high-born, 't is sky-born,
The ruling Power I own,
Who framed me and named me
Inferior to none.
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