Passion-Flowers (Howe)/The Master

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THE MASTER.
Sometimes, in the brilliant strife Of the wise and witty,One who pleads not for himself, Breathes divinest pity.
Sometimes, where fierce speakers hurl Loud denunciation,One clear whisper calms men's hearts To appreciation.
Where the high-tuned viols meet In most rapturous swelling,Passes one who holds the thought Mystic strains were telling.
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Mid the busy haunts of men, Mid their festal dances,Where the eye betrays no heart Deeper than its glances.
I have seen a broader brow, More serene and higher,Eyes wherein an after-thought Chastens native fire.
I, who bow not to the priest Lean, or fed to sleekness,Bend to one who holds of Christ Wisdom, love, and meekness.
When his intercession mild Hushed the critic's pæan,He had caught a gentle tone From the Galilæan.
When his words of higher faith Shamed the Calvinistian,He, were he baptized or not, Answered like a Christian.
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When his eye detected me In the world's vain glitter,And his look said: 'Here is one Whose garments do not fit her.
'She who stakes an hour on cards, Risks a holier treasure;She who scatters shining words, Gathers pain for pleasure.'
Then my world-enfrozen heart Faster beat, and faster;As I looked upon the Man, I beheld the Master.
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