'He has no enemies!' you say.
I pity his condition;
His manhood he has thrown away,
His candour and position.

'He has no enemies!' Well, then,
The reason is,—he never
Has heart enough to act but when
He sees 'which way's the weather.'

His principles are very light,
If he is not contented
To be traduced for doing right,
When once he has assented.

'He has no enemies!' Indeed!
Then what has he been doing?
Or, what on earth can be his creed?
What has he been pursuing?

A truckling—vacillating course,—
Unmanly, undecided;—
His little puny soul is worse
Than sixpence twice divided!

Then give me one of upright heart,
Who dares the truth to utter,
And act a nobler, manlier part,
Though enemies do mutter.

A man of earnest, iron will,
Whose enemies are many;
And yet, whose virtue, strength, and skill,
Are undeterred by any:

Whose fearless love for truth and right
Keeps falsehood ever distant;
And though he may be crushed by might,
Yet always acts consistent.

Aye! like the sturdy forest oak,
Through which the winds do rattle,
Stands firmer from the heavy stroke,
Prepared for Truth to battle.

Such is the man, whose noble soul,
When roused to proper action,
Disdains a sordid, base control,
Or enemies' detraction.

Who knows, when virtue's lost or fled,
That time is really trying;
For if the man is not then dead,
He truly must be dying.