George Borrow.
Reading edition
1
Man of the Book, thou Pilgrim of the Road, The love of travel Drave thee on ever with pursuing goad; Trust was thy burning light, Truth was thy load— Sweet riddles for the weary to unravel, Within thy breast Glowed the pure fire of an Eternal Quest.
2
The Bible was thy chart, the open sky Thy roof and rafter Often, and thou didst learn night’s mystery; Learning some tale from each poor passer-by, Some gracious secret for the grand Hereafter. Master of lore Occult, and wanderer on the wildest shore.
3
What country was not trodden by thy feet, Nor bared its bosom And fragrance to the life it leapt to greet? From field and upland or where waters meet Was stolen, the virgin dew, the veilèd blossom. Its native tongue On stranger lips, in every climate hung.
4
Pursuer of shy paths, all hunted things All creatures lonely, Gypsy and fox and hawk with slanted wings; These drank with thee at the same cosmic springs, These were thy teachers and thy playmates only. Nature gave up To them and thee alike, her hidden cup.
5
Who brought its glory back to cloistered Wales, And wrung their treasure From sacred books and dim sequestered vales? Who found the gold in haunted heights and dales, And showed a wondering world its pride and pleasure? Divine and strong Stood out the altar, with its flame of song.
6
Thy bardlike power, the passion of thy thirst For something greater, Awoke old Cymric melodies the first; Till all the mountains into music burst, And their lost glory crowned the recreator. Outpoured as wine Thy magic words made every shade a shrine.
7
Priest of the portals into the Unknown, Taught by no college, And free of every fountain but thine own; A waif, an exile, by the breezes blown Hither and thither to fresh fields of knowledge, That giant form, Fearless, and still no moment, rode the storm.
8
From land to land a pilgrim, yet at home Where’er thy journey Thou didst a dweller in the Eternal come; The dust thy floor, the heaven of stars thy dome, To break a lance for Truth in some new tourney. With Nature blent Art thou, and the wide world thy monument.
9
Thou gypsy of all time, no lot seems strange, No life was sterile To that free spirit, wrought by rugged change; Thy heart found rest in strife, and did outrange The farthest fancy, and woo the sorest peril. Hardships and lack Were comrades, and the milestones on thy track.
F. W. Orde Ward.