Page:In memoriam (IA inmemoriam00tennrich).pdf/191



churl in spirit up or down, Along the scale of ranks, thro' all To who may grasp a golden ball By blood a king, at heart a clown;

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil His want in forms for fashion's sake, Will let his coltish nature break At seasons thro' the gilded pale:

For who can always act? but he, To whom a thousand memories call, Not being less but more than all The gentleness he seem'd to be,

So wore his outward best, and join'd Each office of the social hour, To noble manners, as the flower And native growth of noble mind;