The roots of nobleness strike down
To common earth’s unsunned abysm;
The lowliest life may wear a crown
Of more than martial heroism.
The wisdom that could save a State
Has sold its robe to sup with folly,
While noteless lives superbly great
Stood proof against her rattling volley.
The conqueror of a hundred fields,
To some low passion oft surrenders;
The boon ambition never yields,
The hand of humble duty tenders.
Not all who walk in hallowed aisles,
To lead the world, themselves are holy;
The pure madonna, Virtue, smiles, —
Though fortune frown, — on graces lowly.
The seamstress, through yon garret door,
Who keeps her soul white in the pallor
Of hungry want, has conquered more
Than all the belted knights of valor!
A sin subdued, or baseness crushed,
Speaks courage that could storm a fortress;
The daring that on bayonets rushed
Has struck to Vice, — Dishonor’s portress.
The proudest trophy that survives
When earth slips fading from our senses.
Is the pure gold of nobler lives,
Crushed out from adverse influences.
The rich by labor, — not by alms, —
Stand farthest from the plane of losses,
And souls who highest bear their palms
Are they who lowliest bear their crosses!
Obscure Victors