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Christopher Brennan - "Droop`st thou and fail`st? but these have never tired; . ."
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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.
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