How sweet are the sounds of the popular voice
⁠In an ex-ministerial ear!
How surely I know that the national choice
⁠Must go with the noisiest cheer!
As I gaze upon votaries faithful as those,
⁠And their incense of worship ascends,
I forget for a moment the malice of foes
⁠And — still better — the coldness of friends.
⁠I feel I am great, and I know I am good,
⁠And no longer regret my position
⁠As statesman who's taken to chopping of wood
⁠And abandoned the paths of ambition.

Is it vanity prompting me? is it self-love?
⁠Can I, safe in my conscience, decide
That it is not such feelings my bosom that move?
⁠Yes ... I think it's legitimate pride.
I am not — or I hope not — a lover of praise;
⁠I am humble — I hope so at least.
It will do me no harm — on occasional days —
⁠Such a rich popularity-feast.
⁠For perhaps I am great, and I think I am good,
⁠And it's surely a mark of submission
⁠To take, though a statesman, to chopping of wood,
⁠And abandon the paths of ambition.

How simple I look! how unconsciously grand,
⁠As I rest from my toil for a space,
With my waistcoat thrown off, and my axe in my hand,
⁠And humanity's dew on my face!
Oh, my brethren in toil, who stand wond'ring around,
⁠By what ties have I bound you to me!
An orator, scholar, and statesman renowned,
⁠Condescending to cut down a tree!
⁠Yes, I know I am great, something tells me I'm good;
⁠And I feel it's a lofty position,
⁠A statesman's, who's taken to chopping of wood,
⁠And forsaken the paths of ambition.

The consular woodman! this citizen-host!
⁠Could the old world's imperial queen
In the days of her early simplicity boast
⁠A more nobly republican scene?
Let me think, as I watch the admirers who note
⁠The simple pursuits of my home,
Of Lucius Quinctius summoned by vote
⁠Of the State from the furrow to Rome.
⁠Yes, I feel I am great, and I know I am good,
⁠And I'm greater by far, with submission,
⁠As statesman, when occupied chopping of wood
⁠Than when treading the paths of ambition.

But Rome? Is it Roman or Greek that's recalled?
⁠'Tis the heroes so dear to my pen,
Pelides, whose war-cry the Trojans appalled,
⁠Agamemnon the leader of men.
For have I not led men aright when astray?
⁠Turned them back from the false to the true?
And do not the Tories and Turks with dismay
⁠Recollect what my war-cry can do?
⁠Yes, yes, I am great, and I surely am good,
⁠Or I could not endure the position
⁠Of statesman resigned to the chopping of wood,
⁠And renouncing the paths of ambition.

But both Roman dictator and Danaan chief
⁠In one cardinal point I excel,
For I am — as I hazard the humble belief —
⁠Conscientiously Christian as well.
And content with all this, let detractors repeat —
⁠As with angry persistence they do —
That my claim to their homage I p'r'aps might complete
⁠Were I only an Englishman too.
⁠Let them rave — I am great; let them sneer — I am good;
⁠And they vex not the happy condition
⁠Of statesmen who, taking to chopping of wood,
⁠Have abandoned the paths of ambition.

⁠Wondrous interlacement!
Holding fast to threads, by green and silky rings,
With the dawn it spreads its white and purple wings;
Generous in its bloom, and sheltering while it clings,
⁠Sturdy morning-glory;

⁠Creeping through the casement,
Slanting to the floor in dusty shining beams,
Dancing on the door in quick, fantastic gleams,
Comes the new day's light, and pours in tide-less streams,
⁠Golden morning-glory.

⁠In the lowly basement,
Rocking in the sun, the baby's cradle stands;
Now the little one thrusts out its rosy hands;
Soon his eyes will open; then in all the lands
⁠No such morning-glory!