The lump of gold: and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Amid the crowded streets and roar of voices,
Unnoticed by the multitude he goes,
Alone, but watchful;—if the world rejoices
He smiles; and if it weeps, he shares its woes:
But no one shares in his: his ways are lonely:—
The millions pass him, for they cannot see,
His glory and his misery; but only
One of themselves; a leaf upon the tree;
A raindrop in the torrent; one small grain
Washed on the stormy shore of Life's sad main.

II

With them he is; but of them? Ah! not so!
For them are common grief and common gladness,

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But he from regal heights looks down below,
And finds no comrade for his joy or sadness.
His feet are on the ways where others travel;
His breast is in the clouds; his forehead fair
And heavenward eyes that see, and would unravel
Time, Fate, and Man are in the upper air,
And catch the dawning light; but cold and stern,
Except for thoughts that ever throb and burn.

III

Would men but hear the things which he could tell them,
Would they but own him, he were bless'd indeed;
The sorrow and the shame that once befell them,
But would befall no more, if they would heed,
Would give him joy to teach; but what care they?
They know him not; or if they did, might love him,
If hate more potent did not seek to slay,
For speaking of the things too far above him,

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For them to tolerate; and so he's dumb,
And broods in silence on the days to come.

IV

And yet he knows himself to be a king—
A king without a kingdom—scorned and throneless!
Around his brow there glows the burning ring,
Sparkling with jewels. From his lips, the moanless,
Escapes a sigh, that he should wear such crown,
Such burden and such penalty of splendour,
And find mid all the myriads of the town—
No man to say, “God save him,” or to render
The homage of a look. Oh, pang supreme!
A fact to him—though to the world a dream.

V

But still he wears it as a monarch should
By right divine; and though he might endeavour
To cast it from him,—evil more than good,

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And sink into the crowd, unknown for ever,
If he could barter it for peace of mind,
And being man, go down into the valleys,
Amid the household warmth, and welcomes kind,
Of children sporting in the garden alleys,
He cannot move it: God alone can take
The halo from his forehead! Let it ache!

VI

'Tis not the pain; for well could he endure
A tenfold agony, if through the portals
Of their dim sight, men could behold him, pure—
Bearing his glory like the old Immortals.
But they are blind; or that gold crown he sees
And feels upon his forehead by its burning,
Is viewless as the wind among the trees,
Or thought unuttered to the brain returning,
And dying where it sprung. Hence comes his grief;—
Is there in Man or Nature no relief?

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VII

One word! One little word! the humblest spoken
Would make him whole!—The word is still unborn,—
Pity him Earth and Heaven! or else heart-broken
He will go down into the grave forlorn,—
Too early blighted, all his glorious thought
Dying within him.—Men who boast of seeing,
Look in his heart—and tell us, wisdom-fraught,
The mystery and Beauty of his Being!
The world will gain—not he! Meantime he dies—
Looking towards the Future—and the skies.