Look for an iron soul to bear the piled
anathema of time, to take, without
abjectness, scorn of every human rout,
colossal though by all the world defiled!
Discovering such in Bligh, instruct your child
in burning shame that one man, walled about
with rigid purpose, so should feel the flout
of History’s rogues through Legend running wild.

The suffering soul of Bligh bends not to shame
but, as sand-heavy hills wait greening grass,
hoists high the lie till truth shall square the score.
His soul is innocent. Watch! It will flame,
superb, when gritty storms of falsehood pass,
and, by humanity, will, tower the more.