By Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
If gratitude a poor man’s virtue is,
‘Tis one at least my sick soul can afford.
Bankrupt I am of all youth’s charities,
But not of thanks. No. Thanks be to the Lord!
Praise be, dear Lady of all grace, to you.
You were my mediciner, my one sole friend,
When the world spurned me from its retinue.
And I am yours, your bond–slave to the end.
–How shall I tell it you? There was a time
When I was sordid in my unbelief,
And mocked at all things less robust than crime,
A convict in my prison–house of grief.
But that is past. Your pity was the key
Which sent me forth, a broken man, but free.