Songs from Vagabondia/Contemporaries
CONTEMPORARIES.
“A barbered woman’s man,”—yes, soHe seemed to me a twelvemonth since;And so he may be—let it go—Admit his flaws—we need not winceTo 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 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, Should look so like the mincing throngWho 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.