His sword is edged with arguments, his vizor terrible with censures;
He goeth full mailed in faith, and zeal is flaming at his heart.
Yet one thing he lacketh, the Mentor of the mind,
The quiet whisper of Discretion—Thy time is not yet come.
For he smiteth an oppressor; and vengeance for that smiting
Is dealt in doubled stripes on the faint body of the victim:
He is glad to give and to distribute; and clamorous pauperism feasteth,
While honest labour, pining, hideth his sharp ribs:
He challengeth to a fair field that subtle giant Infidelity,
And, worsted in the unequal fight, strengtheneth the hands of error;