Avaunt -- Exclusions cold and proud!--
Your doom is come, your day is past;
Not even Fashion dares to cast
Contempt upon the common crowd.

The loftiest noble now must bend
To own his humblest brother-man,
And stoop to teach the artizan,
In hope betimes to make a friend.

It will not do to stand aside;
Rank has its duties, as its dues;
The latter will we not refuse,
If met with anything but pride.

It shall not serve, that old-time plan
Of making worship cling to birth;
A magnate shorn of private worth
Is but the scorn and shame of Man.

O Rank! from nobler sires derived,
O Wealth! purse-rich, but nothing more,
Grow worthier of your state and store,
Or of their homage go deprived.

The time is come for truer things,
When honour, love, and all beside,
Refused to supercilious pride,
Are paid to peasants as to kings.

For both alike are brethren true,
Each in his station doing right,--
Beheld in superhuman light
God's servants, earning wages due.

None will deny the first and best
To king and noble, gladly given,
If they but live as, under Heaven,
Set in high place to help the rest:

But let them heed this mighty truth,--
(Which, for their weakness, we would ken
Indulgently, as due to men
Pamper'd in age and snared in youth)--

If pride, or lust, or sloth forlorn
Dim and defile their high estate,
Our willing love is turn'd to hate,
Our ready homage smiles in scorn.