THE ROUGH SKETCH.
A great grieved heart, an iron will,As fearless blood as ever ran;A form elate with nervous strengthAnd fibrous vigour,—all a man.
A gallant rein, a restless spur,The hand to wield a biting scourge;Small patience for the tasks of Time,Unmeasured power to speed and urge.
He rides the errands of the hour,But sends no herald on his ways;The world would thank the service done,He cannot stay for gold or praise.
Not lavishly he casts abroadThe glances of an eye intense,And, did he smile but once a year,It were a Christmas recompense.
