Poems (Jackson)/Mordecai
MORDECAI.
AKE friends with him! He is of royal line,Although he sits in rags. Not all of thineArray of splendor, pomp of high estate,Can buy him from his place within the gate,The king's gate of thy happiness, where he,Yes, even he, the Jew, remaineth free,Never obeisance making, never scornBetraying of thy silver and new-bornDelight. Make friends with him, for unawaresThe charmèd secret of thy joys he bears; Be glad, so long as his black sackcloth, lateAnd early, thwarts thy sun; for if in hateThou plottest for his blood, thy own death-cry,Not his, comes from the gallows, cubits high.