Classic Poem

A GRAY old man, with a descending beard
Rugged and hoar, and a still massive face,
Met daily in the way. Mall, market-place,
By-way, and thoroughfare his steps have heard
At night and noon. The voice, the utterance slow,
And downward gesture like a blacksmith's blow;
Regardless ear; and eye that would not see,
Or saw as if it saw collectively,—
Who does not call to mind? We thought of all,
Resembling him to each one,—Plato, Paul,
Or him who round besieged Jerusalem
Fled, shrieking “Woe!”—woe to himself and them,—
Until the catapult dashed out his life.
Here, on this slab, above the tear and strife,
He stood, and saw the great world fume and foam on,
As on a dial-plate, himself the gnomon;
Or, like old Time, he leaned on his scythesnath,
Waiting the harvest of the day of wrath,
Now reaping-ripe: anon, with word and blow,
He thunders judgment to the throngs below;
The end of things he prophesies and paints,
And of the rest remaining for God's saints;
To one conclusion all his reasons run,
And this he sees, taking his hearers on
From point to point; though still discursively
The addle-eggs about his temples fly.
Again he wanders by—you wonder where,
And follow pityingly, but miss him there:
Forgetful soon, you join the stream and stress
Of the great Street; when to yon Porch superb,
Behold! the crowd runs, blackening flag and curb,
As to their Stoa the Athenians ran,
Or Rome to hear her Statius. You rush on;
And, in the middle of the jeering press,
He, smeared with mud and yellow yolks is,
Giving the law, like Zeno or Zamolxis.