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.