He worked, and bravely he fulfilled his trust--
So long he wandered sowing worthy seed,
Watering of wayside buds that were adust,
And touching for the common ear his reed--
So long to wear away the cankering rust
That dulls the gold of life--so long to plead
With sweetest music for all souls oppressed,
That he was old ere he had thought of rest.
Old and gray-headed, leaning on a staff,
To that great city of his birth he came,
And at its gates he paused with wondering laugh
To think how changed were all his thoughts of fame
Since first he carved the golden epitaph
To keep in memory a worthy name,
And thought forgetfulness had been its doom
But for a few bright letters on a tomb.
The old Astronomer had long since died;
The friends of youth were gone and far dispersed,
Strange were the domes that rose on every side;
Strange fountains on his wondering vision burst;
The men of yesterday their business plied;
No face was left that he had known at first;
And in the city gardens, lo, he sees
The saplings that he set are stately trees.
Upon the grass beneath their welcome shade,
Behold! he marks the fair white monument,
And on its face the golden words displayed,
For sixty years their lustre have not spent;
He sitteth by it and is not afraid,
But in its shadow he is well content;
And envies not, though bright their gleamings are,
The golden letters of the vanished star.
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