The Rough Sketch

A great grieved heart, an iron will,As fearless blood as ever ran;A form elate with nervous strengthAnd fibrous vigour,—all a man.

A gallant rein, a restless spur,The hand to wield a biting scourge;Small patience for the tasks of Time,Unmeasured power to speed and urge.

He rides the errands of the hour,But sends no herald on his ways;The world would thank the service done,He cannot stay for gold or praise.

Not lavishly he casts abroadThe glances of an eye intense,And, did he smile but once a year,It were a Christmas recompense.

I thank a poet for his name,The "Down of Darkness," this should be;A child, who knows no risk it runs,Might stroke its roughness harmlessly.

One helpful gift the Gods forgot,Due to the man of lion-mood;A woman's soul, to match with hisIn high resolve and hardihood.