His face was sad, the index of a breast
Where memory's fires were raging unsuppressed.
With eyes which search in closest scrutiny,
Nor yet offend the object they would see.
One, who from feature, act and equipoise,
Had known life's sorrows better than its joys.
A man whom you would notice in the street,
And know the second time if you should meet.
This man of mystery and intellect
Arose, and stood in manhood's poise erect.