St. Anthony The Reformer - His Temptation

No fear lest praise should make us proud!     We know how cheaply that is won;     The idle homage of the crowd     Is proof of tasks as idly done.     A surface-smile may pay the toil     That follows still the conquering Right,     With soft, white hands to dress the spoil     That sun-browned valor clutched in fight.     Sing the sweet song of other days,     Serenely placid, safely true,     And o'er the present's parching ways     The verse distils like evening dew.     But speak in words of living power, -     They fall like drops of scalding rain     That plashed before the burning shower     Swept o' er the cities of the plain!     Then scowling Hate turns deadly pale, -     Then Passion's half-coiled adders spring,     And, smitten through their leprous mail,     Strike right and left in hope to sting.     If thou, unmoved by poisoning wrath,     Thy feet on earth, thy heart above,     Canst walk in peace thy kingly path,     Unchanged in trust, unchilled in love, -     Too kind for bitter words to grieve,     Too firm for clamor to dismay,     When Faith forbids thee to believe,     And Meekness calls to disobey, -     Ah, then beware of mortal pride!     The smiling pride that calmly scorns     Those foolish fingers, crimson dyed     In laboring on thy crown of thorns!