The Refugee
"WHAT do you say? That shrivelled shrimp of a man Is your great scholar? Even when you began To tell me of him I knew it was some hoax— You make me angry with your foolish jokes He your great scholar! Tattered clothes and torn! And those weak eyes that glimmer so forlorn And so despondent! See his mouth tremble now! See the long wrinkles on his yellow brow! A workingman perhaps! Some idle lout That dares mistake his milk-and-water doubt Of matters that he knows no whit about For a God-sent divine philosophy! You've been deceived! He'd never muddle me!"
So rambled many a wiseacre and sage Urged on to jeer and sneer by some blind rage— The academic scorn of liberty; And not unmixed with fear: what if there be Truth in the man? But he had never bowed The knee to them in worship! all uncowed By the long host who follow in the train Sheeplike for centuries of a godlike brain, He dared strike out anew, and in their soul They guessed his bold and fascinating goal Would be the blind mark of a future host Still following after his unwearied ghost. And would not his own followers attack In later times his brother?—on the rack That soul would writhe: such agonies endure All greater spirits—tests that kill or cure; Ripe from the chastening of such bitterness With firmer pace to their great goal they press. So did my friend: with cynic shrug awhile He bore the taunting word and sneering smile, Then he forgot them all—let them rail on; As fateful day by day he nearer won To the tremendous and puissant thought That thrilled his veins with rushing fire, and wrought Ever a deeper imprint on his heart: In those imaginings had scorn a part, Or those foul sages? they were as the dead, Who stir—who knows?—on their uneasy bed.
A Russian student and a hounded Jew: