I know not that this man may be, Sinner or saint; but as for me, One thing I know, that I am he Who once was blind, and now I see.

  They were all doctors of renown,
  The great men of a famous town,
  With deep brows, wrinkled, broad, and wise,
  Beneath their wide phylacteries;
  The wisdom of the East was theirs,
  And honor crowned their silver hairs;
  The man they jeered and laughed to scorn
  Was unlearned, poor, and humbly born;
  But he knew better far than they
  What came to him that Sabbath day;
  And what the Christ had done for him,
  He knew, and not the Sanhedrim.

JOHN HAY.

* * * * *

RABBI BEN EZRA.

    Grow old along with me! 
    The best is yet to be,
  The last of life, for which the first I was made: 
    Our times are in his hand
    Who saith “A whole I planned
  Youth shows but half; trust God:  see all, nor be afraid!”

    Not that, amassing flowers,
    Youth sighed, “Which rose make ours,
  Which lily leave and then as best recall?”
    Not that, admiring stars,
    It yearned, “Nor Jove, nor Mars;
  Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!”

    Not for such hopes and fears,
    Annulling youth’s brief years,
  Do I remonstrate—­folly wide the mark! 
    Rather I prize the doubt
    Low kinds exist without,
  Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.

    Poor vaunt of life indeed,
    Were man but formed to feed
  On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: 
    Such feasting ended, then
    As sure an end to men;
  Irks care the crop-full bird?  Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

    Rejoice we are allied
    To That which doth provide
  And not partake, effect and not receive! 
    A spark disturbs our clod;
    Nearer we hold of God
  Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.

    Then, welcome each rebuff
    That turns earth’s smoothness rough,
  Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go! 
    Be our joys three parts pain! 
    Strive, and hold cheap the strain;
  Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

    For thence—­a paradox
    Which comforts while it mocks—­
  Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: 
    What I aspired to be,
    And was not, comforts me: 
  A brute I might have been, but would not sink i’ the scale.

    What is he but a brute
    Whose flesh hath soul to suit,
  Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? 
    To man, propose this test—­
    Thy body at its best,
  How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

    Yet gifts should prove their use: 
    I own the Past profuse
  Of power each side, perfection every turn: 
    Eyes, ears took in their dole,
    Brain treasured up the whole;
  Should not the heart beat once, “How good to live and learn?”