Droop'st Thou And Fail'st? But These Have Never Tired

Droop'st thou and fail'st? but these have never tired; winds of the region, free, they shine and sing, unurged, unguerdon'd: hast thou then desired to be with them and trail'st a useless wing? Self-pity hath thee in her clinging damp, and makes a siren-music of thy woes to lure thy feet into that reptile-swamp where rancour's muddy stream, festering, throes. Cunning is her condolence with the snarl of canker'd memory or the soft tear for vanisht sweetness: come, an honest parle, air for thy ailment! make these wrongs appear. Ay, this hath spat at thee, and that hath flung his native mud, and that with bilious guile most plausible — what! hast thou loved and sung as was in thee, and need'st do else than smile? (Heed not that subtle demon that would prompt to measure thee by them; so humbled yet thou art not, nor so beggar'd thine accompt: what thou art, that thou hast, and know'st thy debt.) And in thy house of love the venom'd dart was thrust within thy side — Even so! must then the gather'd ripeness of thy mind and heart be turn'd to flies? that is no way for men. Who said, and rid himself of usual awe, I prize not man, save as his metal rings of god or hero? Hast thou made a law, live by thy law: 'tis carrion hath no wings.