Thou, who didst imitate the mournful manner
Of my most lonely and despised life,
And — leaving joy for suffering and strife —
Upon the bare hillside didst pitch thy banner!
Thou, whose unshamed eyes with tears oft ran o'er —
Salt, dripping tears! — when, giving up all proper
Vessels of use, silver, and tin, and copper,
Thou atest earth's herbs on the earth, — a woful dinner!
Rest thou content, Sir Knight! Ever and ever —
Or, at the least, while through the hemispheres
Golden Apollo drives his glittering mares —
Famous and praised shall be thy high endeavor!
Thy land of birth the glory of all nations!
Thy chronicler's, the crown of reputations!