WYNDHAM! 'tis not thy blood, though pure it runs <br />Through a long line of glorious ancestry, <br />Percys and Seymours, Britain's boasted sons, <br />Who trust the honours of their race to thee: <br />'Tis not thy splendid domes, where science loves <br />To touch the canvass, and the bust to raise; <br />Thy rich domains, fair fields, and spreading groves; <br />'Tis not all these the Muse delights to praise: <br />In birth, and wealth, and honours, great thou art! <br />But nobler in thy independent mind; <br />And in that liberal hand and feeling heart <br />Given thee by Heaven--a blessing to mankind! <br />Unworthy oft may titled fortune be; <br />A soul like thine--is true Nobility!<br /><br />Charlotte Smith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xviii-to-the-earl-of-egremont/
