Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Soul's Defiance

The Soul'S Defiance.

I said to Sorrow's awful storm, That beat against my breast:Kage 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.

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.

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.

I said to Friendship's menaced blow, Strike deep, my heart shall bear;Thou canst but add one bitter woe 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—Oh, 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.