The 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;
Nor ever narrowness or spite, Or villain fancy fleeting by, Drew in the expression of an eye, Where God and Nature met in light,
And thus he bore without abuse The grand old name of gentleman, Defamed by every charlatan, And soil’d with all ignoble use.