  He tells his story with his young sad eyes, The rags are drooping from his sunburnt breast, He had sat down a little while to rest, Far off the country of his longing lies; He sits there looking at his bare bruised feet And sees the rich man and the priest pass by, There where the crucifix is planted high On the grass bank outside the village street. Beside him lies his little flageolet— The children danced that morning when he played, Laughed loud to hear the music that he made;— Now the day closes and he wanders yet. Oh, if some one of all the folk who pass, Would turn and speak one word and hear him though, And help! It were so small a thing to do; And all they see him lying in the grass. So the day ended, and the evening sun Cast the long shadows down; he turned and saw The crucifix blood-red, and in mute awe, He crossed himself, and shuddered, and went on. And then, it seemed that the pale form above Moved slowly, lifting up the thorn-crowned head, And the drooped eyelids opened, and he said, “Oh, ye who make profession of your love, “With voices echoing a hollow cry, My name is ever on your lips, and yet I wander wearily and ye forget, I am as nothing to you passers by, “I had no heed of any shame or loss, And will ye leave me tired and homeless still Oh, call my name by any name ye will, But leave me not for ever on my cross!” |
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