High-mindedness, a jealousy for good,
A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,
Dwells here and there with people of no name,
In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:
And where we think the truth least understood,
Oft may be found a 'singleness of aim,'
That ought to frighten into hooded shame
A money-mongering, pitiable brood.
How glorious this affection for the cause
Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly!
What when a stout unbending champion awes
Envy and malice to their native sty?
Unnumbered souls breathe out a still applause,
Proud to behold him in his country's eye.
More verses by John Keats
- On Hearing The Bag-Pipe And Seeing
- Otho The Great - Act Ii
- The Eve Of Saint Mark. A Fragment
- Sonnet To John Hamilton Reynolds
- Sonnet Ix. Keen, Fitful Gusts Are