I SAW—’t was in a dream, the other night— <br />A man whose hair with age was thin and white; <br />One hundred years had bettered by his birth, <br />And still his step was firm, his eye was bright. <br /> <br />Before him and about him pressed a crowd. <br />Each head in reverence was bared and bowed, <br />And Jews and Gentiles in a hundred tongues <br />Extolled his deeds and spake his fame aloud. <br /> <br />I joined the throng and, pushing forward, cried, <br />“Montefiore!” with the rest, and vied <br />In efforts to caress the hand that ne’er <br />To want and worth had charity denied. <br /> <br />So closely round him swarmed our shouting clan <br />He scarce could breathe, and, taking from a pan <br />A gleaming coin, he tossed it o’er our heads, <br />And in a moment was a lonely man!<br /><br />Ambrose Bierce<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/montefiore/
