THE NABOB’S PRIDE
I passed him in his high-born mansion oft,
And lo! he would not speak to me,
For I was born of humble parentage
And my fortune lacked his dignity.
The days rolled by. We often met in face
Upon the highway of our town;
I hoped to see him cast a smile on me,
But only reaped a scowling frown.
I clenched my fist, and silent passed him by
With words—perhaps revenge or spite;
But they breathed inspiration to my soul
To strive and set our scores aright.
With such thought buried in mine aching breast,
I labored ceaseless at my task;
And saw my fortunes not unenvied rise
Until no greater could I ask.
But what of him? In some far distant place,
Again as oft we chanced to meet.
His wealth had flown, while mine tenfold had grown,—
Foul luck had made him indiscreet.
I picked him from the gutter,—a sorry sight,
Reeling with wine, and sick and sore:
And as I passed a snug goldpiece, he said,
“Beg pard’, that I knew you not before.”