O my son!
The ostentatious virtues which still press
For notice and for praise; the brilliant deeds
Which live but in the eye of observation -
These have their meed at once; but there's a joy
To the fond votaries of fame unknown, -
To hear the still small voice of conscience speak
Its whispering plaudit to the silent soul.
Heaven notes the sigh afflicted goodness heaves,
Hears the low plaint by human ear unheard,
And, from the cheek of patient sorrow, wipes
The tear, by mortal eye unseen, or scorn'd.