O brother, warm and young, covetous of other's favour,
I see thee checked and chilled, sorrowing for censure or forgetfulness:
Let coarse and common minds despise—that wounding of thy vanity,
Alas, I note a sorer cause, the blighting of thy love;
Let the callous sensual deride thee,—disappointed of thy praise,
Alas, thou hast a juster grief, defrauded of their kindness:
It is a theme for tears to feel the soft heart hardening,
The frozen breath of apathy sealing up the fountain of affection;
It is a pang, keen only to the best, to be injured well-deserving,
And slumbering Neglect is injury,—Could ye not watch one hour?