Moral Heroism

He stands before me in his royal mood, With eyes that fron 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 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.