 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
Meanwhile, he wist not what they communed of;
None spake to him of trouble in the air,
Of ill reports, of plans to wreck his hopes,
If hope still clung to him; nor any brother
Came in a brother's love to him, and said:
Lo! we will reason it together; then
God will give light perchance, and thou shalt be
Saved from much sorrow, and I shall be blessed.
They looked askance at him; they crossed the road,
And passed on the other side; they lifted up
Their eyes to heaven, and saw him not; or with
Broad, brazen stare they silently wenton.
He noted them, but heeded not, or thought
But how the herd sweep past the stricken deer,
Or how the wild wolves, padding o'er the waste,
Eyeing a wounded comrade, note how soon
The time may come when they shall lap his blood,
Or gnaw his bones. But nothing then he knew
Of their complaints, or of the storm a-brewing;
He only thought that people had not loved
His preaching, and would hear his voice no more;
Else had he stayed it out to fight the fight,
For sound of trumpet and the clash of swords
Roused in him joy of battle, even then
When hope of victory was none in him.
None spake to him of trouble in the air,
Of ill reports, of plans to wreck his hopes,
If hope still clung to him; nor any brother
Came in a brother's love to him, and said:
Lo! we will reason it together; then
God will give light perchance, and thou shalt be
Saved from much sorrow, and I shall be blessed.
They looked askance at him; they crossed the road,
And passed on the other side; they lifted up
Their eyes to heaven, and saw him not; or with
Broad, brazen stare they silently wenton.
He noted them, but heeded not, or thought
But how the herd sweep past the stricken deer,
Or how the wild wolves, padding o'er the waste,
Eyeing a wounded comrade, note how soon
The time may come when they shall lap his blood,
Or gnaw his bones. But nothing then he knew
Of their complaints, or of the storm a-brewing;
He only thought that people had not loved
His preaching, and would hear his voice no more;
Else had he stayed it out to fight the fight,
For sound of trumpet and the clash of swords
Roused in him joy of battle, even then
When hope of victory was none in him.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |