| |
| I MARKED in the midst of the glittering throng | |
| A figure all bent and retreating; | |
| His raiment was shabby, and bearded his face, | |
| His gaze was bewildering and fleeting; | |
| And those whose drossiness glared through the gilt | 5 |
| Guffawed a contemptuous greeting. | |
| |
| Intently I peered in his time lined face | |
| And read there his marvellous story; | |
| His brows were large with the wisdom of pain, | |
| His locks by affliction made hoary; | 10 |
| A memory lurked in the depth of his eyes, | |
| A prayer and a vision of glory. | |
| |
| A mem’ry aglow with the splendors of old, | |
| A prayer of patience and yearning, | |
| And a vision of Home that gleamed in the dark, | 15 |
| Through ages of weary sojourning; | |
| Yet they of the gilded and glittering throng | |
| Had naught but derision and spurning. | |
| |
| He folded a dream to his quivering heart | |
| And nursed it through vigils of ages; | 20 |
| He gave it the blood of his life to absorb | |
| Yet mockery now is his wages. | |
| Shall this be the word his story to close, | |
| A jeer be the last of its pages? | |
| |
