To Benedict Spinosa

TO BENEDICT SPINOZA.

O pure as Christ, as deeply-souled I

Whose life an alder-shaded stream,

Hid from the broad day's garish beam,

In hush of thought unmurmuring rolled.

Thou outcast of an outcast race!

From loyalty to truth no lure

Thy step could turn,—its path obscure

Content with even tread to pace.

With surer foot who could have scaled

The vulgar heights? Conformist,—thee

With loud acclaim and jubilee

Rabbles and rabbins would have hailed.

With tardy recognition now

Memorial honors thee await,

There, where on earth thine humble fate

Thou didst accept with placid brow.

B. W. Ball.