Belisarius

I am poor and old and blind;The sun burns me, and the windBlows through the city gateAnd covers me with dustFrom the wheels of the augustJustinian the Great.

It was for him I chasedThe Persians o'er wild and waste,As General of the East;Night after night I layIn their camps of yesterday;Their forage was my feast.

For him, with sails of red,And torches at mast-head,Piloting the great fleet,I swept the Afric coastsAnd scattered the Vandal hosts,Like dust in a windy street.

For him I won againThe Ausonian realm and reign,Rome and Parthenope;And all the land was mineFrom the summits of ApennineTo the shores of either sea.

For him, in my feeble age,I dared the battle's rage,To save Byzantium's state,When the tents of Zabergan,Like snow-drifts overranThe road to the Golden Gate.

And for this, for this, behold!Infirm and blind and old,With gray, uncovered head,Beneath the very archOf my triumphal march,I stand and beg my bread!

Methinks I still can hear,Sounding distinct and near,The Vandal monarch's cry,As, captive and disgraced,With majestic step he paced,--"All, all is Vanity!"

Ah! vainest of all thingsIs the gratitude of kings;The plaudits of the crowdAre but the clatter of feetAt midnight in the street,Hollow and restless and loud.

But the bitterest disgraceIs to see forever the faceOf the Monk of Ephesus!The unconquerable willThis, too, can bear;--I stillAm Belisarius!