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."