Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide

With that untaught innate philosophy,

Which, be it Wisdom, Coldness, or deep Pride,[hx]

Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.

When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,

To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled[hy]

With a sedate and all-enduring eye;—

When Fortune fled her spoiled and favourite child,

He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.