Poems (Cook)/Nature's Gentleman

by Eliza Cook

NATURE'S GENTLEMAN.

Whom do we dub as gentlemen? The knave, the fool, the brute—
If they but own full tithe of gold, and wear a courtly suit;
The parchment scroll of titled line, the riband at the knee;
Can still suffice to ratify and grant such high degree:
But Nature with a matchless hand, sends forth her nobly born,
And laughs the paltry attributes of wealth and rank to scorn;
She moulds with care, a spirit rare, half human, half divine,
And cries, exulting, "Who can make a gentleman like mine?"

She may not spend her common skill about the outward part,
But showers beauty, grace, and light, upon the brain and heart:
She may not use ancestral fame his pathway to illume—
The sun that sheds the brightest ray may rise from mist and gloom.
Should Fortune pour her welcome store, and useful gold abound,
He shares it with a bounteous hand, and scatters blessings round.
The treasure sent is rightly spent, and serves the end design'd,
When held by Nature's gentleman, the good, the just, the kind.

He turns not from the cheerless home where Sorrow's offspring dwell;
He'll greet the peasant in his hut, the culprit in his cell;
He stays to hear the widow's plaint, of deep and mourning love;
He seeks to aid her lot below, and prompt her faith above.
The orphan child, the friendless one, the luckless, or the poor,
Will never meet his spurning frown, nor leave his bolted door;
His kindred circles all mankind, his country all the globe—
An honest name his jewell'd star, and truth his ermine robe.

He wisely yields his passions up to Reason's firm control;
His pleasures are of crimeless kind, and never taint the soul.
He may be thrown among the gay and reckless sons of life;
But will not love the revel scene, nor head the brawling strife.
He wounds no breast with jeer or jest, yet bears no honey'd tongue;
He's social with the grey-hair'd one, and merry with the young;
He gravely shares the council speech, or joins the rustic game;
And shines as Nature's gentleman in every place the same.

No haughty gesture marks his gait, no pompous tone his word;
No studied attitude is seen, no ribald gossip heard;
He'll suit his bearing to the hour—laugh, listen, learn or teach;
With joyous freedom in his mirth, and candour in his speech.
He worships God with inward zeal, and serves him in each deed;
He would not blame another's faith, nor have one martyr bleed:
Justice and Mercy form his code; he puts his trust in Heaven;
His prayer is, "If the heart mean well, may all else be forgiven!"

Though few of such may gem the earth, yet such rare gems there are,
Each shining in his hallow'd sphere as Virtue's polar star.
Though human hearts too oft are found all gross, corrupt, and dark,
Yet, yet, some bosoms breathe and burn,—lit by Promethean spark:
There are some spirits nobly just, unwarp'd by pelf or pride,
Great in the calm, but greater still when dash'd by adverse tide—
They hold the rank no king can give, no station can disgrace:
Nature puts forth her Gentleman, and monarchs must give place.