They lie with blighted love and buried woe.
I did not waste the gifts which nature gave,
Nor slothful lay in the Circéan bower;
Nor did I yield myself the willing slave
Of lust for pride, for riches, or for power.
No! in my heart a nobler spirit dwelt;
For constant was my faith in manhood's dower;
Man—made in God's own image—and I felt
How of our own accord we courted shame,
Until to idols like ourselves we knelt,