Sweet babe, when the ignob’e scorn and blame
Thee for thy birth, and cry: Thou hast no name;
Thou art the child of passion and of shame,

Ignore them, walking on the world’s highway
Full of great purpose; or, if thou shouldst stay
To answer such poor Custom’s hirelings, say:

“A name is but a sound to mark a thing
Conveniently for thought; can it make sing
The silent snake or give the worm a wing?

“The only name of worth is that I make
By my own kindly deeds for my soul’s sake;
Illustrious men have walked the path I take.

“Who reads the verses of Boccaccio
And then reviles him as a babe of wo
Or taunts him as a bastard base and low?

“Who looks at Filipino Lippi’s saint
With grateful heart forgets that it is paint
Wrought by a hand men say had a birth taint.

“And who are these, children of sires unwed,
Born of delirious Love the world wished dead,
About whose foreheads fame her light has shed?

“Catherine the First, De Castro, and Cardan,
James Berwick and John Burgoyne, Athelstan,
And Archelaus the Maccedonian,

“Almagro, and too many men of fire
And force for me to name, since I desire
Neither your foolish favor nor mad ire.”

—Miriam Daniell