My Sonnets | ||
18
DEFOE.
Thou lesser Milton! as to him, to theeBelongs a double glory. Thou didst dare,
That thought and conscience might be, as the air,
Chainless—that speech, within thy land, might be,
Like the wild winds or stormy billows, free,
Welcome foul calumny, unearned, and share
The prisoner's heart-sickness. Thou didst bear
The savage insults of the pillory;
Thy hands' hard, honest, earnings, through life, see
Torn from thee in that holy cause. We shrine,
For this, thy name with those that liberty
Loves to repeat,—names greater far than thine,—
Whose fame shall wither not till memory wing
Her way from earth, but know a still enduring spring.
November 15th, 1842.
My Sonnets | ||