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Songs from Vagabondia

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<h3>CONTEMPORARIES.</h3> "A barbered woman's man,"—yes, so He seemed to me a twelvemonth since; And so he may be—let it go— Admit his flaws—we need not wince To find our noblest not all great. What of it? He is still the prince, And we the pages of his state. The world applauds his words; his fame Is noised wherever knowledge be; Even the trader hears his name, As one far inland hears the sea; The lady quotes him to the beau Across a cup of Russian tea; They know him and they do not know. I know him. In the nascent years Men's eyes shall see him as one crowned; His voice shall gather in their ears With each new age prophetic sound; And you and I and all the rest, Whose brows to-day are laurel-bound, Shall be but plumes upon his crest. A year ago this man was poor,— This Alfred whom the nations praise; He stood a beggar at my door For one mere word to help him raise From fainting limbs and shoulders bent The burden of the weary days; And I withheld it—and he went. I knew him then, as I know now, Our largest heart, our loftiest mind; Yet for the curls upon his brow And for his lisp, I could not find The helping word, the cheering touch. Ah, to be just, as well as kind,— It costs so little and so much! It seemed unmanly in my sight That he, whose spirit was so strong To lead the blind world to the light, Should look so like the mincing throng Who advertise the tailor's art. It angered me—I did him wrong— I grudged my groat and shut my heart. I might have been the prophet's friend, Helped him who is to help the world! Now, when the striving is at end, The reek-stained battle-banners furled, And the age hears its muster-call, Then I, because his hair was curled, I shall have lost my chance—that's all. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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