Classic Poem

The fruit-tree's branch by very wealth
Of fruit is bended low;
The peacock's feathered pride compels
A sluggish gait and slow;
The blooded horse that wins his race,
Must like a cow be led:
The good in goodness often find
An enemy to dread.

Where Jumna's waves roll blue
With sands of sapphire hue,
Black serpents have their lair;
And who would hunt them there,
But that a jewel's bright star
From each hood gleams afar?
By virtue rising, all
By that same virtue fall.

The man of virtue commonly
Is hateful to the king,
While riches to the scamps and fools
Habitually cling:
The ancient chant ‘By virtue great
Is man’ has run to seed;
The world takes rare and little note
Of any plucky deed.