I.
He paweth no more in the field,
Where glitter the spear and the shield;
Nor heareth the thunder of war,
Nor smelleth the battle afar;
In his eyes is no glory of gleam,
And his strength is the strength of a dream.
II.
He never turned back from the sword,
When the pride of the land was his lord,
Yet his neck is bowed meekly—the brave
Can be meek, aye, as meek as a slave,—
And he works near the dark of his day,—
’Twas his pride (he was taught) to obey.
III.
In the gloaming of life his old eyes
May see visions of glory arise;
Who knows but within his old heart
May thousands of memories start
Of the march and the drum and the fife,
Of the charge and the cry and the strife?
IV.
Who can tell? But, hark! once again
He hears, as in whispers the strain
Of that long-ago hid in his blood;
It comes nearer; he paweth the mud
Of the street, and his sinews rejoice,
And he hears not his slave-master’s voice!