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Pretty much that. All parties' good Were so best answered. If you would But eye attentively the herd To whom you minister God's word, You'd find you're no more of a piece With them than foxes are with geese. Pray, understand me! You have gifts, Good where the social field is wide, But dangerous for folk whose pride Is to be Lords of rocky rifts And Freemen of the ravine-side.

To a man's feet his native haunt Is as unto the tree the root. If there his labour fill no want His deeds are doomed, his music mute.

Success means just: Self-adaptation To the requirements of the nation.

Which from the heights you best o'erlook, Not from the crag-encompass'd nook.

That talk is fit for citizens, Not for poor peasants of the glens.

O, still your limitation vain Between the mountain and the plain! World-citizens you'd be of right, While every civic claim you slight; And think, like dastards, to go free By whining: "We're a small folk, we!"