The Pride of Worth

There is a joy in worth,
A high, mysterious, soul-pervading charm;
Which, never daunted, ever bright and warm,
Mocks at the idle, shadowy ills of earth;
Amid the gloom is bright, and tranquil in the storm.
It asks, it needs no aid;
It makes the proud and lofty soul its throne:
There, in its self-created heaven, alone,
No fear to shake, no memory to upbraid,
It sits a lesser God; — life, life is all its own!
The stoic was not wrong:
There is no evil to the virtuous brave;
Or in the battle's rift, or on the wave,
Worshipped or scorned, alone or 'mid the throng,
He is himself— a man! not life's nor fortune's slave.
Power and wealth and fame
Are but as weeds upon life's troubled tide:
Give me but these, a spirit tempest-tried,
A brow unshrinking and a soul of flame,
The joy of conscious worth, its courage and its pride!