After Seeing Pius Ix

I saw his face to-day; he looks a chief Who fears not human rage, nor human guile; Upon his cheeks the twilight of a grief, But in that grief the starlight of a smile. Deep, gentle eyes, with drooping lids that tell They are the homes where tears of sorrow dwell; A low voice -- strangely sweet -- whose very tone Tells how these lips speak oft with God alone. I kissed his hand, I fain would kiss his feet; 'No, no,' he said; and then, in accents sweet, His blessing fell upon my bended head. He bade me rise; a few more words he said, Then took me by the hand -- the while he smiled -- And, going, whispered: 'Pray for me, my child.'