Dark in the brow and bilious in the cheek,
Whose yellowish linen flowers but once a week,
Conspicuous, annual, in their threadbare suits,
And the laced high-lows which they call their boots.
Well may’st thou shun that dingy front severe,
But him, O stranger, him thou canst not fear!
Be slow to judge, and slower to despise,
Man of broad shoulders and heroic size!
The tiger, writhing from the boa’s rings,
Drops at the fountain where the cobra stings.