A Christian poet am I, or would be;
And must I therefore to the grave go down
Without my singing-honour and my crown?
What matter?—if the angel quire for me
Are weaving amaranths with melody?
Yet could I (so fiends whisper) charm the frown
From Fame's cold brow, and pluck a chaplet down,
If I would bow to deft hypocrisy.
But thanks to Thee, O Lord, who dost enslave
The conquered ill to serve against its kind,
Me from this trial even my pride might save;
I scorn in any lie to be confined.
And Truth is royal and sets free;—the grave
Hath but the gaoler's privilege—to bind.