Tales of a Wayside Inn

"Yes, well your story pleads the cause / Of those dumb mouths that have no speech, / Only a cry from each to each / In its own kind, with its own laws; / Something that is beyond the reach / Of human power to learn or teach, -- / An inarticulate moan of pain, / Like the immeasurable main / Breaking upon an unknown beach."

Thus spake the Poet with a sigh; / Then added, with impassioned cry, / As one who feels the words he speaks, / The color flushing in his cheeks, / The fervor burning in his eye: / "Among the noblest in the land, / Though he may count himself the least, / That man I honor and revere / Who without favor, without fear, / In the great city dares to stand / The friend of every friendless beast, / And tames with his unflinching hand / The brutes that wear our form and face, / The were-wolves of the human race! " / Then paused, and waited with a frown, / Like some old champion of romance, / Who, having thrown his gauntlet down, / Expectant leans upon his lance; / But neither Knight nor Squire is found / To raise the gauntlet from the ground, / And try with him the battle's chance.