How meek yet mighty is the spirit of Truth
That dwells in silence, or the half-utter'd word,
Stifled in blustering clamour ere 'tis heard
By the harsh world, where sound is more than sooth.
Tho' to the few observers it endu'th
With heavenly beauty, hath it but deferr'd,
Or doth it never grant the due reward
To those who seem to us to reap but ruth?

Say, meek Cordelia, was the moment's bliss
With thy recover'd sire, the one fond kiss
Full recompense for all thy woes and tears?
It was, for though still-working truth on earth
Wills nought but recognition, a new birth
From the bare seed sees spring the ripen'd ears.