Though from his thoughts undisciplined
To warehouse and to street averse,
He, in exchanges of his mind,
Diverts him with a lavish purse—
Diverts him with his social schemes,
His plan against the existing plot;
And what he, of his justice, deems
Would—justice practised—be his lot.
Of whence he comes, of where he goes—
These things no human record keeps.
What black unwritten deed he does,
What pure fair hope within him sleeps.
What strange mysterious power he wields,
What undeveloped force to sway,
None guess who see him cross the fields,
Or plodding on his stealthy way.
Only dead fires attest his life,
Only dumb trees his brothers stand;
He knows not home nor child, nor wife,
Nor friendly grasp of any hand,
Yet lays his scheme for daily food,
Yet keeps him keen for filching pence
For this ... o’er pipe and fire to brood—
Spending imagined affluence!
IN THE STRANGE COUNTRY
I SPEAK your language very glibly now,
Have all the countersigns and know the range
Of all your boundaries; the streets I know....
And yet, your land is strange.
You ask me whence I came? I cannot tell.
My Race? Ah! God forbid that you should see
Others like me,—in this land where you dwell—
Not such as we.
“Do you have news?” you ask. My heart contracts.
Do I have news?... Yea, messages do come,
As if I had made wistful, faithful pacts
With those ... back home....