Paul Hamilton Hayne (1830–1886)

SPIRITS there are inwrought with vilest clay,

Which bear no God-like stamp of heavenly art,

Whose envious instincts writhe with bitter smart

Whene’er they feel some worthier nature’s sway.

Ah! who so basely-born, so curst as they!—

Poor reptiles!—whose envenomed passions dart

Back to transfix their own corrupted heart,

And speed the progress of the soul’s decay.

We pity such, yet loathe them. Who can keep

His honest scorn unspoken, should he see

These human vipers strive their fangs to steep

In the soul-blood of fame’s Nobility?

Who but is glad when the swift lightnings leap

Of withering wrath, to blast them utterly?