The Anglo-Indian Story-teller

'And they were stronger hands than mineThat digged the ruby from the earth—More cunning brains that made it worthThe large desire of a king;And bolder hearts that thro' the brineWent down the Perfect Pearl to bring.

'Lo, I have wrought in common clayRude figures of a rough-hewn race;For Pearls strew not the market-placeIn this my town of banishmentWhere with the shifting dust I play,And eat the bread of Discontent.

'Yet is there life in that I make,—O Thou who knowest, turn and see,As Thou hast power over me,So have I power over these,Because I wrought them for Thy sake,And breathed in them mine agonies.

'Small mirth was in the making. NowI lift the cloth that clokes the clay,And, wearied, at thy feet I layMy wares, ere I go forth to sell.The long bazar will praise—but Thou—Heart of my heart, have I done well?'

"Go forth, return in glory,To Clusium's royal 'ome:And round these bloomin' temples 'angThe bloomin' shields o' Rome.'

'The depth and dream of my desire,The bitter paths wherein I stray,Thou knowest Who hast made the fire,Thou knowest Who hast made the clay.

'One stone the more swings to her placeIn that dread Temple of Thy worth—It is enough that thro' Thy graceI saw nought common on Thy earth.

'Take not that vision from my ken;Oh, whatso'er may spoil or speed,Help me to need no aid from menThat I may help such men as need!'—