Some debts there are that make the debtor proud;
So ours to him, who could philosophise
With common-sense, and sweep from starry skies
The brain-spun webs that darken like a cloud.
We loved him, for his highest thoughts avowed
Our own akin and less than ours allies;
Born of the common soil but born to rise
And light the labor of the laurel-browed.
Justice he traced to truth; morality,
Back to the brutish primal needs of man;
And stood himself for all the best might be.
He wrought in words, a faithful artisan;
And lived to shame their loutish mockery
Whose virtue ended where his own began.