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The world applauds his words; his fameIs noised wherever knowledge be;Even the trader hears his name,As one far inland hears the sea;The lady quotes him to the beauAcross a cup of Russian tea;They know him and they do not know.
I know him. In the nascent yearsMen’s eyes shall see him as one crowned;His voice shall gather in their earsWith 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 doorFor one mere word to help him raiseFrom fainting limbs and shoulders bentThe 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 browAnd for his lisp, I could not findThe 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 sightThat he, whose spirit was so strongTo lead the blind world to the light,

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