I passed him in his high-born mansion oft,
And lo! he would not speak to me,
For I was born of humble parentage
And my fortune lacked his dignity.
The days rolled by. We often met in face
Upon the highway of our town;
I hoped to see him cast a smile on me,
But only reaped a scowling frown.
I clenched my fist, and silent passed him by
With words--perhaps revenge or spite;
But they breathed inspiration to my soul
To strive and set our scores aright.
With such thought buried in mine aching breast,
I labored ceaseless at my task;
And saw my fortunes not unenvied rise
Until no greater could I ask.
But what of him? In some far distant place,
Again as oft we chanced to meet.
His wealth had flown, while mine tenfold had grown,--
Foul luck had made him indiscreet.
I picked him from the gutter,--a sorry sight,
Reeling with wine, and sick and sore:
And as I passed a snug goldpiece, he said,
“Beg pard’, that I knew you not before.”