There is a valued, though a stubborn weed,
That blooms but seldom, and is found, but rare,
In sunless places, where it cannot seed—
Would Earth, for truth's sake, had more room to spare!
Cant hates it—hypocrites condemn—the herd
Seeking self-interest frown, and pass it by:
'Tis trampled on—'tis bantered. Undeterred,
Though scoffed at, mocked at, yet it doth not die;
But like a diamond for a century lost,
Buried in darkness and obscurity,
When found again, it loses not in cost,
But keeps its value and its purity,
By time unsullied—still the prince of gems,
And first of jewels in all diadems.
The rich man claims it; but he often buys
Its substitute, that is not what it seems;
While Poverty, ennobled in disguise,
Its simple bloom oft worships and esteems.
Knaves boast possession, but they forge its name;
Mobs land and praise it, but with them 'tis noise,
Or the mere passport to some hidden game,
Beneath whose garb Self-interest lurks, and lies.
'Tis by the good man only deemed a prize
Too valued to be scoffed at, or oppressed;
'Tis evermore respected by the wise,
Though thousands treat it as a common jest:
And that thou may'st not slight so grand a dower,
'Tis Honesty. Go thou, and wear the flower.