Classic Poem

Thou record of the votive throng
That fondly seek this fairy shrine,
And pay the tribute of a song
Where worth and loveliness combine—

What boots that I, a vagrant wight
From clime to clime still wandering on,
Upon thy friendly page should write—
Who'll think of me when I am gone?

Go plough the wave, and sow the sand;
Throw seed to every wind that blows;
Along the highway strew thy hand
And fatten on the crop that grows.

For even thus the man that roams
On heedless hearts his feeling spends;
Strange tenant of a thousand homes,
And friendless, with ten thousand friends!

Yet here for once I'll leave a trace,
To ask in aftertimes a thought;
To say that here a resting-place
My wayworn heart has fondly sought.

So the poor pilgrim heedless strays,
Unmoved, through many a region fair;
But at some shrine his tribute pays,
To tell that he has worshipped there.