From thy serene abode thou lookest down
With pitying eye upon a rabble rout
Who strive and plot and fight and turn about,
Endeavouring to seize some phantom crown,—
Whether of kingdom or of some small town,
Or village—or one single home—their own:
They stumble, and with hurried steps awry
Blindly they miss their opportunity;
Whilst, all the time, thy Golden Book is there,
Ripe with earth's wisdom; but they only stare
Or pass along with stupid scoff and curse,
Using thy name for 'scoundrelly' or worse.
Of all those who have striven to endow
The world with garnered knowledge, only thou
Hast for so long endured of thorns the crown;
Beneath the feet of swine thy name is thrown;
And in the streets thy priceless wit doth lie;
So that, alone, the stooping passer-by
Undaunted by an epithet, may find;
And treasuring like gold seven times refined,
Open the casket with exultant air
To see the Pearl of Wisdom lying there.