The name rings in his ears: With flashing hopes and ashen fears, There stands he breathless, startling all. Some stop, some into ranks divide, Their arms outspreading lest he fall. He drops his staff, throws out his hands, His fingers are creeping like things that see: ’Mid all the multitude he stands And shouts, ‘Have mercy, Lord, on me!’ His shaking beard, his tottering frame, His eye-balls in their sockets turning, His lips delirious with that name,— O’er his blind face a look is burning Of dreadful greed, with mouth agape, Crazed for some good that may escape. ‘Take my hand, some one; let me feel His raiment only; it may heal.’