Moral Heroism

He stands before me in his royal mood, 
    With eyes that front the world with level light, 
    Unquailed by hate, and lit, in Envy's spite. 
With the frank beauty of infantine good; 
    His bold brow threatful only with the might 
Of its incumbent thoughts—an eagle brood 
Nursed on that crag in lofty solitude; 
    His lip firm bent, yet stirred as with the flight 
Of inward smiles. His tall and upright form, 
    From the set foot-sole to the swerveless brow 
    Glows with a manhood that can never bow
To the launched thunders of oppression's storm, 
    Yet o'er the weak and worn as lithely bends, 
    As a green willow o'er its pale flower-friends.