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THE POET 203
Against false peace he plies his lance,
’Gainst cowardice and ignorance,—
No bribe he knows
From nation’s hand
Nor king’s command;
But Ais way goes.
And when he wavers, sorrow scourges
His heart and free of passion purges.
He is a brother of the small,
Of women, as of all who suffer,
The new and weak, when waves grow rougher,
He steers, till fairer breezes fall.
Greater he grows without his will
By deeds his calling to fulfil,
And near the tomb
To God he sighs,
That soon may rise
A richer bloom
To deck his people’s soul with flowers
Of beauty far beyond his powers.
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