Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/429

Rh And love of many hearts—know the true proof

Of faithfulness lies not therein. That dwells

In the lone consciousness of duty done,

And in the scorn and contumely of souls

Self-soiled with sin: the necessary hate

Of perjured and contaminated spirits

For that whose mere existence brings reproach,

Shame, and despair for something lost forever.

When thou hast won the hatred of the vile,

Then know thou hast served well thy fellow-men.

CONQUERED

BLAME

(A MEMORY OF EISLEBEN, THE PLACE OF LUTHER'S BIRTH AND DEATH)

a far, lonely land at last I came

Unto a town made great by one great fame.

Born here, here died the noblest of his time,

Whose memory makes his century sublime.