The Story
of Saville
Broken winged crept to be free of the well-meant pity of friends
Rough as a blundering touch on a burn that solace intends,
Free of condolences oily, felicitous, falser than hell,
From men who at last might eclipse him, who still rode safe on the swell,
Free of the bitter black sense—the shock—that no one of them all
Vitally cared if he starved in his garret, a rat in the wall.
Oh! if a merciful God, my friend, hath guerdoned and blest you so,
Hath out of a million languid hearts, faint pulsing, feeble and slow,
Singled one scarlet treasure, that beats as strongly and true
As the passionate powerful ocean-throb, for you and only you,
That hushes its lilt to a lullaby, soothing you while you sleep,
And bursts to blossom under your smile, and bleeds if ever you weep,
Trample it not, nor esteem it a pebble paltry and cheap,—
