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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            CXI.
             
      The churl in spirit, up or down
          Along the scale of ranks, thro’ all,
          To him who grasps a golden ball,
      By blood a king, at heart a clown;

      The churl in spirit, howe’er he veil
          His want in forms for fashion’s sake,
          Will let his coltish nature break
      At seasons thro’ the gilded pale:

      For who can always act? but he,
          To whom a thousand memories call,
          Not being less but more than all
      The gentleness he seem’d to be,

      Best seem’d the thing he was, and join’d
          Each office of the social hour
          To noble manners, as the flower
      And native growth of noble mind;

      Nor ever narrowness or spite,
          Or villain fancy fleeting by,
          Drew in the expression of an eye,
      Where God and Nature met in light;

      And thus he bore without abuse
          The grand old name of gentleman,
          Defamed by every charlatan,
      And soil’d with all ignoble use.
       


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