How much they wrong thee, Conscience! who would paint
Thy form in terrors clad and fell despair,
With face that scowls, and voice that speaks of fear
Not such thou art, and falsely they attaint
Th' angelic order who nor scowl nor frown.
Who thus depict thee. Ever have I found
Thee one whom beauty's mildest charms surround.
When, firmness falt'ring, I have wilful grown,
Or honour seemed to lose, in pensive mood
Like seraph coming, Conscience, thou didst speak
Reproving not reproaching, and didst break
Each lingering cloud that lay 'twixt me and good
With beams of sorrowing eyes. Repressing still
Each lesser fault, the germs of greater dost thou kill.