And for me tell him—O! I pray you to!—
Look not for him where piled up gold’s aglow,
Nor where the servile courtier bendeth low,
Nor yet indeed where banked spears filtering through
Sharp steel light falls pallid and cold as dew,
Where’er the humble kneel in prayer, there, go.
’Tis there you’ll find him where the tapers show
His hands in blessing lifted. Then, O then,
For me say this—say it again! again!
(I crave your pardon, Stranger. Say not so.)