Envy is deathless, though the envious die,
And shafts of slander, hissing through the dark,
Have ever loved, like death, a shining mark.
Then do not think those shafts could pass thee by.
Thy conscious worth, and purpose pure and high
Cannot defend from little curs that bark;
No wall, high as the flight of morning lark,
Can top the poisoned arrows as they fly.
Rise o’er the herd in feeling, thought, or deed,
And feel the bitter sting of Envy’s tongue;