With vesture torn and air forlorn He shuffles on his quest. His limbs are old; his heart is cold. By night he gets no rest. With mock and sneer the people jeer; Hands wave from windows dim; With brutal vaunts and obscene taunts The crowd make sport of him. Wild thro' his brain the ancient strain Throbs like a broken chord -- "Until ye die hold charity More potent than the sword!" The old men grin to see how thin He is, and like to droop. The madmen greet his staggering feet, And imitate his stoop. Amid these harms the babes in arms Alone do not deride; With large sweet eyes and little cries They call him to their side. They weep and crow; they laugh and throw Themselves upon his breast. His dim eyes shine; "The Babe divine Still justifies my quest." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONG FOR THE LONDON VOLUNTEERS by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD ISAIAH: FIFTY-SECOND CHAPTER by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE GLADNESS by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH COMING (APRIL, 1861) by HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL |