The Soul's Defiance

I said to Sorrow’s awful storm,   That beat against my breast, Rage on—thou may’st destroy this form,   And lay it low at rest; But still the spirit that now brooks   Thy tempest, raging high, Undaunted on its fury looks   With steadfast eye. I said to Penury’s meagre train,   Come on—your threats I brave; My last poor life-drop you may drain,   And crush me to the grave; Yet still the spirit that endures   Shall mock your force the while, And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours   With bitter smile. I said to cold Neglect and Scorn,   Pass on—I heed you not; Ye may pursue me till my form   And being are forgot; Yet still the spirit, which you see   Undaunted by your wiles, Draws from its own nobility   Its high-born smiles. I said to Friendship’s menaced blow,   Strike deep—my heart shall bear; Thou canst but add one bitter woe   To those already there; Yet still the spirit that sustains   This last severe distress Shall smile upon its keenest pains,   And scorn redress. I said to Death’s uplifted dart,   Aim sure—oh, why delay? Thou wilt not find a fearful heart—   A weak, reluctant prey; For still the spirit, firm and free,   Unruffled by this last dismay, Wrapt in its own eternity,   Shall pass away.