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Charlotte Smith - Sonnet XVIII. To The Earl Of Egremont
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WYNDHAM! `tis not thy blood, though pure it runs
Through a long line of glorious ancestry,
Percys and Seymours, Britain`s boasted sons,
Who trust the honours of their race to thee:
`Tis not thy splendid domes, where science loves
To touch the canvass, and the bust to raise;
Thy rich domains, fair fields, and spreading groves;
`Tis not all these the Muse delights to praise:
In birth, and wealth, and honours, great thou art!
But nobler in thy independent mind;
And in that liberal hand and feeling heart
Given thee by Heaven--a blessing to mankind!
Unworthy oft may titled fortune be;
A soul like thine--is true Nobility!
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