Wordsworth.
Oh, that estates, degrees, and offices,
Were not derived corruptly! and that dear honour
Were purchased by the merit of the wearer!
How many then should cover, that stand bare?
How many be commanded, that command?
How much low peasantry would then be gleaned
From the true seed of honour? and how much honour
Picked from the chaff and ruin of the times,
To be new varnished?
There’s a proud modesty in merit!
Averse from asking, and resolved to pay
Ten times the gift it asks.
Dryden.
Oh, your desert speaks loud; and I should wrong it,
To lock it in the wards of covert bosom;
When it deserves with characters of brass
A forted residence ’gainst the tooth of time,
And razure of oblivion.
Shakspeare.
Thine is a mind of maiden artlessness!
Unstained, undarkened, by the dross of earth;
A soul, that through thine eyes, bright beams express
Thy nature, e’en as noble as thy birth;
Whose every glance reflects the gem enshrined,
Worthy a form so fair; the diamond of the mind.
Anon.
His resting-place is noted by a stone
Of whitest marble: truthful words are those
Inscribed thereon. The scene of his repose
Befits his life: ’twas beautiful and calm.
In meekness and in love he went his way,
Uprightly walking—filling up the day
With useful deeds. He often poured the balm
Of healing into wounded breasts; nor sought
The praise of men in doing good.