Classic Poem

O POVERTY , by thee the soul is wrapp'd
With hate, with envy, dolefulness, and doubt.
Even so be thou cast out,
And even so he that speaks thee otherwise.
I name thee now, because my mood is apt
To curse thee, bride of every lost estate,
Through whom are desolate
On earth all honourable things and wise.
Within thy power each blest condition dies:
By thee, men's minds with sore mistrust are made
Fantastic and afraid: —
Thou, hated worse than Death, by just accord,
And with the loathing of all hearts abhorr'd.

Yea, rightly art thou hated worse than Death,
For he at length is longed for in the breast.
But not with thee, wild beast,
Was ever aught found beautiful or good.
For life is all that man can lose by death,
Not fame and the fair summits of applause;
His glory shall not pause,
But live in men's perpetual gratitude.
While he who on thy naked sill has stood,
Though of great heart and worthy everso,
He shall be counted low.
Then let the man thou troublest never hope
To spread his wings in any lofty scope.

Hereby my mind is laden with a fear,
And I will take some thought to shelter me.
For this I plainly see: —
Through thee, to fraud the honest man is led;
To tyranny the just lord turneth here,
And the magnanimous soul to avarice.
Of every bitter vice
Thou, to my thinking, art the fount and head;
From thee no light in any wise is shed,
Who bringest to the paths of dusky hell.
I therefore see full well,
That death, the dungeon, sickness, and old age,
Weighed against thee, are blessed heritage.

And what though many a goodly hypocrite,
Lifting to thee his veritable prayer,
Call God to witness there
How this thy burden moved not Him to wrath.
Why, who may call (of them that muse aright)
Him poor, who of the whole can say, 'Tis Mine?
Methinks I well divine
That want, to such, should seem an easy path.
God, who made all things, all things had and hath;
Nor any tongue may say that He was poor,
What while He did endure
For man's best succour among men to dwell:
Since to have all, with Him, was possible.

Song, thou shalt wend upon thy journey now:
And, if thou meet with folk who rail at thee,
Saying that poverty
Is not even sharper than thy words allow, —
Unto such brawlers briefly answer thou,
To tell them they are hypocrites; and then
Say mildly, once again,
That I, who am nearly in a beggar's case,
Might not presume to sing my proper praise.